My alphabet has grown
and torn grown and torn and grown
into a celestial vortex of melting letters,
words, phrases, and lame
euphemisms that sputter out
and capture the essence
of America the Blue, America the black
and blue, with band-aids on her
knees and elbows. Her porcelain
body is chipped and her hair is
the wig in the hat she wears.
Her natural fingernails are
now plastic with worn paint
while her hands are wrinkled
and dry from neglect. Where the
measurements of data are scoffed by
the word of God and stories of
fear, retribution, and revenge travel
with the breeze no matter how
many think the old winds are gone.
Where engaging is done in the
far reaches of cyberspace and
face to face is day by day.
Where the focus is on old highways
to old solutions instead of how
the new problems allow us to roam.
Where there's no Neosporin behind
the band-aids only making
them so capable.