Old white shepherds in Armani suits
tend sleeping herds. Unseated judges
roam highways and cities, search for new dreams
and catastrophies. Grumbling teamsters
share coffee with scab truckers in
stagnant, seventies throwback choke
and pukes at two a.m. Never ending samsara
cycles of latest fashion trends, In Things For Spring,
swim over magazine covers. Heroin chic bimbos
with food issues and dead eyes, flirt, beckon and shame
tight-laced homemakers who love Jesus and fold
clothes, never noticing. Conspiritorial whispers
of how they get you echo in supermarket aisles.
Teachers do their level best to not mention gods
before impressionable minds. Men take aim at percieved
enemies, villians of their private feature presentations.
Elderly Chinese men do Tai Chi exercises in city parks
with young, tatooed musicians. Hungry bikkhus
on cross-country buses, crave cheeseburgers and watch stunning
sunrises in New Mexican deserts. Young turks walk
from state to state, slowly starving. Hidden prophets whisper
messages to shouting, angry mobs. Newlywed mothers fret over
diets and daily serials. Fathers alienate their wives and become
strangers to their children. Tweakers snort, junkies stick in
secret places, and fine American children eat X and wave glow
sticks. White-bread collectives sing happy, meaningless songs
and accrue sickening debt on special days in self-congratulatory
orgies. Brothers screw brothers. Friends come and go. Toddlers
muddle around, while old country barbers boast and complain
about things that don't concern them. False intellectuals
reminisce about T.V. shows as if they were real memories. Young
ranchers dream of city life, while harried accountants book cattle
drive vacations. A transient knows that the grass is all the same color.
Subteranians huddle around burning trashcans in winter
desperate for warmth. Hard-working sons toil on ancestral fields.
Happy couples flee west to be married by the King. Middle-aged
gym teachers fuck fifteen year olds. A young football player takes
walking for granted. A blind bluesman sings a song about loving light.
Wealthy pedagogues speak to hear their own voices. Stoned students
sleep at their desks. Upper-middle class pricks bore people in airport
bars. Brutalized Cherokees watch tourists drive past in luxury cars.
Migrant workers pick peaches to sale in supermarkets they can't afford
to shop in. Underpaid servers bear humiliation to feed their children.
Well dressed liars make their livings meddling in private lives. Children
are stolen from parents to meet quotas.. Uninformed voters push buttons next
to familiar names. Heavily dogmatic salesmen walk around dreaming,
making little progress. Bitter teens carve up their arms as a retribution against
distracted parents. Red faced millionaires keel over from stress related
illnesses. Hopeful children read fantasies and grow. Jaded adults harbor illusions and
decay. This is my home. A place of Resident Evils and Born Again soul
winners. A field of reticent sheep and ravenous wolves. Futurist dreamers walking
hand-in-hand with living relics. Skinners Utopia reborn in commercials and
shopping malls. Orwell's London wearing an Uncle Sam costume. The new
Babylon of the Rastafari. A racket of loud singing and patriotic nonsense. Bigoted
old men bickering with P.C. thugs over irrelevant foolishness. The Yardbird's
ghost whispering cautionary tales, playing sad music to mourn the passing of
our national integrity. A panorama of bustling city life and dirty white houses,
of surreal mountain ranges and golden prairies. Proud warriors raising flags
at personal Iwo Jimas. Peaceful visionaries gunned down by ignorant cowards.
A dirty rabble massed on a hill, railing aginst the threat of the week. A dozen nonthinking
joiners in uniform beating a prone crackhead. Three Hundred Million soft decendants
of rugged pioneers. Three Hundred Million voices singing praises to pretend liberty, illusory
domestic security, and a dead, forgotten, common dream.