The skies over America <br />are vibrant as a Pollock painting <br />and dissonant as a Schoenberg <br />symphony. They’re the canvas <br />on which we scrawl the graffiti <br />of our lives. <br /> <br />Ours is a garden where <br />every flower may flourish, <br />bitter nightshade and evening <br />primrose, a Mendelian greenhouse <br />where hybrids are the rule <br />and whore lies down with priest. <br /> <br />We’re enamored of the camera. <br />If we could, we’d like to film <br />the destruction of the world, <br />even though no one would be left <br />to watch it explode a second time <br />except a few seagulls. <br /> <br />America was born to immigrant <br />parents in a sharecropper’s shack. <br />Three acres and a mule were its <br />only possessions. It was suckled <br />on hard work, cheap whiskey, <br />tobacco, cornbread and collard greens, <br />and the promise of eternal life. <br /> <br />The skies over America <br />are crumbling. They’re responding <br />well to therapy. They need <br />more antioxidants, plastic surgery, <br />yoga lessons. They’re weeping. <br />The skies over America are <br />closed for remodeling.<br /><br />Matt Flumerfelt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-skies-over-america/
