This all just kinda came out. I haven’t done much in the way of editing it. I wanted to keep it raw.
Disclaimer: This reads almost like a rap song. I hate rap, so we’ll call it creative non-fiction. Too much Eminem as a kid, I guess. May occasionally make easily offended or overly anti-American ears bleed.
My Country. My United States of America…
Heh.
Fought for, unrivaled, forgotten, unknown. Through the progression of time, generations gone by. Generations changed. Generational apathy gave way to generational ignorance and identity crisis. We don’t teach ourselves. How can this be? This is the land of the free. No one can take that from me. The home of the brave. we cannot wind up in history’s grave. This new city on a hill, do any remember still? If they won’t teach it we’ll preach it. Hills. Breeds back to Bunker. Champion, Kettle, Sugar Loaf, Hamburger forward to Safwan and The Whale. What’s that? Empire? Hell! We fight against it. We help end it. Six down since we started. Seven, I forgot about Japan. Now its fashionable to talk about the death of ours. Forget it. We’re fighters. How you gonna take down all Fifty Stars? United. A democratic republic with an inviolate Constitution. You call that empire? You shoulda paid more tuition.
Cities. States of mind. Strutting, sprawling, brawling Los Angelos. High Smoky Denver. Dirty OKC’s been brave. Her classy little sister Tulsa still lives like Oklahoma. Lincoln is football surrounded by corn and fine with it. Sunny, skinny Daytona. Kansas City’s fast for a slow paced place. What happens in Vegas? New York ain’t changed, just keeps one fist balled tighter now. 1am Dallas traffic like cruising the Death Star’s canyons. Me, I prefer the Southlands. Mississippi anywhere. Atlanta in blooming transition. Memphis, can you hear her? Saved the best for last. Nola Forever. My city. The city of my bride. My family. Can’t wait to move in Jackson Square. Watch a rising sunset. The land of Ol’ Hickory and Huey Long. New Orleans rising? Risen. Saints. Pirates got their own alley. Look at the steeples of St Louis to see Madam Laveau. (And indulge me when I say; F— FEMA, Katrina, Nagin, and Blanco!)
Turn on, tune in, and drop the pretense. Give the Hippies one last go. Look who’s coming up. I don’t care who you voted for. Change is coming, but not on a platform. Not what they hoped, either. Turns out we’re all sick of it. Insulted by the news, even. Call me a Tea Bagger, then. Just keep your drink close at hand. Some of us carry guns. Stare down the Union knockaround like we used to do lobsterbacks. Still ain’t with me? Just wait and see. When you try to lead we the people on, of, by – you best look out for the people. We own this! We run this! We know this! We are this!
We got problems. Economic conundrums. Ethnic pot melting over. Forget race, that’s a misnomer. Just like every other country. Messed up and determined to be. What’s the difference? We don’t implode. We don’t collapse. We stand. We live. Nine times out of ten, we’re better off. That’s why we welcome you. Legally, thank you. And we’re not done yet. More often right than wrong. The list of countries we built is long. We do what we can, even when it gets hot. We’d do more, but in New York there’s a rented lot. We get shut down by self-serving complaints. Who else is gonna do it? You ain’t!
Digital Exile 