Resurrection

I was bred among sub-élites, sociopaths-in-training, bits of machinery, human fodder for the cold and hungry military-industrial complex. Because while God may bless America, it doesn’t just fall out of the sky. It takes seared and comatose consciences of those cat lickers predestined for hell to exploit its flowery rhetoric and menace those in whom light yet shines. Bullying and emotionally blackmailing sensitive souls is of the essence, so we don’t get another inconveniently lucid George Orwell. As the last gleaming left the eye of schoolmate and cousin, as the werewolf transition began under the full moon of adulthood, there was no wailing to be heard. What gangland was my America? Not a one of my cousins, male or female, is the same person I knew as a child. One may have killed himself. Another may have succumbed to cancer. Even our blessed mothers were so cold, so little wonder my generation found premature death so natural. Did we ever really have the opportunity to be alive, let alone human, our sacred life organ mutilated from our birth after the Egypto-Jewish custom? If being whole and intact was ever encouraged or allowed, I testify that I was absent that day. God bless America – land that I love. And yes, her people too do I love, as I finally realized. But tears are what love looks like in public, though they dim her Plexiglass cities, for the good of her souls. I promise to end that love deficit. You do as you see fit.

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