Angels with
Dirty Faces {
South Dakota}
What do you say to
stoic faces on
Mount Rushmore?
Our fathers without
bodies hover over us at
night,
unwilling and/or unable to
kiss us.
Where am I going, and why am I in this hand basket?
Can you keep
breathing life into dead men,
ideas,
nations?
Revolution may mean
repackaged, but it is a
gift to all.
The last
exploration is only through
astral projection.
At night when I can see the
stars through
street
lights,
clear skies. Should I keep my head out of
those
clouds? My fathers say, sternly, "
Of course."
Atlas holds
Earth on his shoulders, but who holds the
moon?
Inertia holds us here--we know that's all,
even faces on
Rushmore know, they see
stars without us and try to hold back
tears.