How I glance out the window to see the
monolithic clouds, taking to the sky as if it
was the interstate that led to
the great American dream.

The dream that was revealed by Fitzgerald
and died of starvation from Steinbeck.
The dream that begged for reconciliation but got nothing.
The dream that was nothing.

Nothing but the plastic glow of ****-jobs along
with the lights that illuminated the local Walmart.

Nothing more than the glimmer of hope
shot down by the square conformity that is now.

The now that forgot humanity at the hazy bus stop,
leaving them to return home and ****** the intellect.

In head melting Sundays where I sit staring at electricity
that kills time slowly like a premeditated ******.