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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.

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