I once dreamt of your rolling hills, your mountains, your cities, and as a child in rural Southern Oregon, in Summer-times many, poured my mind and spirit onto the possibility of traveling to your core, to New York City, and then, a wave of successive Events happened, all of them more clearly defining you for me, America

But are these Events too many for me to recount? Shall I mention torture programs and black-site operations? Shall I mention Iraq and Afghanistan? I know you’d rather not hear about these things, and you’ll exclaim, “But look, don’t you love the cool heat of Death Valley? And what of my vibrating Manhattan?”

Yes, but,

America, you have far more than a single valley of death,

and even the one I love,

you killed for.

And I love your vibrating Manhattan,

but I also know about your Manhattan Project

& I do love the way mushrooms grow in the dense forests of Oregon and California, the lands of my childhood, adolescence and young adulthood,

and I do love the rhizomatic freeways where stoned hipsters zoom, zoom on tendrils of concrete inside metal capsules called little Toyota hybrid cars over Palm Tree Hills in Los Angeles, that magical place that shimmers at night and shines by day

Yes, but,

America, you also know that those hipsters elected and never criticized a president who brought hope, drone strikes and continued, relentless war

Stoned, they imagined themselves at the End of History


And now that’s all gone.

The sun has set on America.

Nor sun, nor moon, nor stars, will ever again rise in America.

Only an Orange Colored Goo With Sangria Colored Swirls, Dripping From a Bloated Anal Vein Remains,

  And so many, with great prideful puckulence, sucked on that Purulent Oozing Goo,

oh all this sordid business, and it’s all business with you these days,

makes me sick for you,




What have you become? Or have you always been this way? Did the Oozing Orange solidify around you, jumpsuit-like, overtaking all, making you,

in parts,

tired, paranoid, rage-filled, dull and grey?


America are you now a completely romance-less place?


a land of cars, roads and bedrooms, where none of these places have?

America of kisses, cars, cigars

the Cheap & the Expensive.

Who can really make love with that Panoptic Giant White and Orange Hemorrhoid bulging, from every mediated, psycho-molecular, ocular and auditory edifice?

America, you have become a romance-less land.






(featured image courtesy here)

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