We live nestled between three large stands of hills, the row out the front door, the row over back, and the cluster to the north. In effect, we live in a little bowl.
When I got home last night, the across the street neighbors were setting off fireworks.
The dog didn’t like it, but I thought it was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever heard. The sound would pop up and then you could hear it bouncing around over heard off of the hills, the noise lingering on until the next firework went up.
America when will you be angelic?
When will you take off your clothes?
When will you look at yourself through the grave?
When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites?
America why are your libraries full of tears?
America when will you send your eggs to India?
I’m sick of your insane demands.
When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks?
America after all it is you and I who are perfect not the next world.
Your machinery is too much for me.
You made me want to be a saint.
There must be some other way to settle this argument.
Filed under: America how can I write a holy litany in your silly moo
