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I have a vision, a vision that the people of this nation possessing of vaginas, those of every race and color and faith, of every state of wealth and poverty, with missing limbs and breasts, with scars and luscious rolls of fat, with the taut, uplifted skin of youth, in full health and sickness both, in every abled and disabled state—descend upon the marbled throne of power, and with our pussies overwhelm the gates, with our vaginas swallow up the guns and sights of snipers, with our pussies leaking blood and fluid drown the guards in Kevlar vests, flood the marble stairwells, swallow desks and pens, computers, bleed the written words to nothing, with our pussies redolent with scents of all our living, all our births and lusts, our coming and our fucking, pussies melon pink and eggplant dark, tucked in nests of fur curling black and grey and brownish, red as stripes on oval office couches, blond as velvet drapes, or bare and shining in the light—let us bring our pussies down upon the men of state, the orange one in his golden gaudy flesh suit pinched with hate, let us bring our pussies down and pussyboard them with our flood, let us grab them with our pussies, and sink them in our juice-wet folds, fingers on the buttons that swell ourselves and make our mucus flow, crying out with grunts of our own pleasure til their voices cease to gurgle from their lungs—and their breaths, every one, come to an end.