God is dead, and we killed Him, or so they said, and willed the whim,
for disbelief is the opiate of the masses, who wander around the country wondering, “Will you marry me?”
as the blue grey shades of dusk draw her veil over the cozy streets in the hilly valleys of America,
the inlets into her wholesome secret heart.
I have seen Lady Liberty, Our Lady, the American Mary, and she is sweet.
We search for her torch in the law courts, and the food courts, and the basketball courts of America.
We search for her torch in the empty churches, in the lonely lurches, in the blustery Midwestern birches of America.
We search for her torch in the houses of broken families, in the houses of forgotten worship, in the houses of ill-repute, all throughout America.
I have heard the squeals of man and woman in fornication.
I have heard the shrieks of man and man in copulation.
I have heard the sounds of sex sweeping across the nation in denigration and desecration.
We do not have a surplus population.
I have seen the best of my generation, mauled limb from limb, their minds sucked out of their skulls before they were even born, before they got a chance to open the womb and to attain citizenship in America.
I have seen the towers fall all around us in a heap of ash and rubble in the shape of a cross, casting its shadow across America.
I have seen the faces of the living lost in a vast morass of morphine dreams and the ghastly phantasmagoria of erotica from America.
Yet, I have seen her heart keep beating, beating, beating, and her eyes keep weeping, weeping, weeping, for you, and for me, and for America.
For her torch cannot be quenched!
She bears her torch to the dry lands of the parched brush of the tinderbox that is America.
She bears her torch to the smoky cities of the dessicated coasts of America.
She bears her torch before the darkness of the waters and the deep night skies of the plains and mountains of America.
She bears her torch to the hearts of the hopeless and the minds of the foolish of America, yearning for a mantle full of stars and a tilma full of roses.
Will you let her bear her torch to you?
For hers is the torch of the memory of liberty.