IWTS No. 50
I was the sound of America. I was the din of Americans. That fury, that tumult, that patriotic insanity. The dinner plates lay facedown, covered in dust; so long ago my grandmother’s generation. We were always divided, you and I. We pretended to play nice because nice kept the prairie clean of bodies. Today there’s no prairie and no bodies. Our minds have shrunk to the size of rabbit shit. We are ideas and border lines; we’ve lost our feel for dirt. Go fight for the scraps, they order (we believe). We are rabid. I long for the messy path but find suburbs and modular homes. I seek the silence and glittering morning skies of a forested mountaintop untamed and true. I gather my belongings and look for a fire in which to toss them. I am spent. I am riddled with the holes of America, the gunshots never again romantic as the cannons on the pirate seas; they are dull and homogenized. I am muffled cries of anguish and the slap of an open hand against another’s cheek. I am a terrified America. I am weeping alone, if I weep at all. I have no more time for grief. I am the sound.