america I sing

What I have seen in the cities: The depthless loneliness in the lowered eyes of the passersby, the grey, solitary crowd.

What I have seen in the countryside: The land is empty. Rows of indistinguishable crops are tended by distant machines.

What I have seen in the suburbs: The hard, acquisitive stares in the eyes of young boys, the frantic secrecy of little girls, all unnoted by their sated, ox-like parents. All day and night long: the silent, empty, paranoid streets.

Rustling through the landscaping, soft spring breezes still beckon, urge: let the murderous freeways and the glass-box office parks, the command bunkers and the radar discs, the screaming sirens and the trash-blown streets, the superstores and piped-in music and tasteless, nourishment-less food— fade out like the last scene of a bad movie, and the lights come up on the old, real world: the garden, the field, the woodland, the people together, home.

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