Mother America

Blood on the firmament,
trickling slyly over the mountains;

fanged mountains,
beat mountains,
scarred mountains,
and mountains of ash.

The clash of shadows
in the midday pallor
crushing all other sounds,
astounding all ears.

We shed paltry tears
on the book of loss
as the cost of losing becomes clear,
bleary with reminiscence
and a severe case of the cranks,
blisters on our shanks,
choking on the stankass miasma
of mother America.

-r. miller

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