Stay on the trail.
A buzzing insect visits me in the shower, crawling up the pipe to the shower head. I slay it viciously with hot water and watch it swirl away. It does not understand my politics, and I have no patience for it.
I am america, both in my balance and my sum.
Dancing the daughters of flimsy men away as the sun shines down on defeated ideals that were only golden in the mouths of politicians anyway.
A slain insect, an aborted movement, an encouraged trend.
Each second, brings less human recognition than before, the methylated masses search for every sign in the old ways
and disbelieve the new.
The fly on the wall did not comprehend,
and I didn’t either,