There is a lot to be
angry about with
America now, but it is not America
herself. She has a
disease, a
cancer inside her. It is the
mutated remains of
dead cells that is
killing her. A
bee sting
poison from her birth has
festered into an old wound
infected with dry cracked
fingernails clasping onto the last
wrinkled dollars drinking the
life blood that feeds the
healthy pink and green
growth of the next generation.
Dead skin should
slough off to let the
new growth rise
fresh and clean. But this
disease collect itself in the
decayed detritus of old skin.
Absorbs its own breath and
caked white blood cells
depleted of nutritive value so it can
dig deep to the bowels of the
power plant at the
heart and soul of
America where it will
inbreed gray-suited
Don Draper drinking
paramecium, all
brylcreem sheen and big teeth smiles,
pumping clots into the
blood stream of America, blocking
glass ceiling shatterers and
lightning bolt pen wielders.
How many nines does it take to
see that the medicine
that has been prescribed by the
tea-stained hand is poison,
more poison for the
papery fleshed billionaire zombies to
drink like so much champagne at a
Hampton’s dinner party.
Even underneath the grime of a
thousand factories pumping
climate change into her lungs,
American is beautiful.
America is good.
I stood still for a
heartbeat moment and
saw the wind through the grass
in the front yards of
ten thousand New England colonials.
I saw the gentle lap lap of the tide
on a rocky beach beside a
windswept lighthouse.
I saw the ghostly spires of a metropolis
hovering on the horizon through the
golden stalks of wheat in the city limits.
I saw a city in the trees on a mountaintop.
I see the purposeful, honest
ebb and flow of humanity
carefully picking a path along
the edge of the platform in a
renovated subway station.
I see the people. Eyes sharp, searching,
lips pursed in worry, ears pricked to
hear the news of an
America growing healthy.
They’re waiting.
America is waiting.
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