Hollow salves for white guilt emblazon the goal line of the end of the artificial turf which
was assigned arbitrarily the endangered birds of prey from East Philly. Inverted across midfield
Their mortal foes: The Chiefs of old Sioux country (though that people
live now in South Dakota, and fight more for clean water than for trophies) flank wizened glory's arms.
Look up, and say can you see - The skies are graced not by eagles, the roaring masses
drowned in the rift torn 80,000 titanium fan blades wide through the air. Raptors, Hornets and Lightning rule the air now, and as they screech their slogan over
their stricken prey of esoteric balloncraft-
not too much can get close to their nest before it is picked clean, in these hungry days for warbirds-
I hear echoed in it a hollow ringing sadness for all the bones they leave behind. Newsmen cry that the anguished screams are those of a girl. Somewhere else, a demented old man thinks of me (I hope) and wonders how good I'd look in one of those. Dare I elicit his disfavor by denying the possibility openly? When he asks why I am not proud to be an American, I do not know where to start. There is too vast a gulf between reality and the Caucasian somnolence of Plano. Perhaps it is best he rests eternal unaware