Cherry Pies

The land is still the land
even while
giant corporations
build towers and cars and streets
and stomp out
hunnysuckle plants
and cherry pie peace
with dollar sign combat boots and
Jesus Saves! parachutes.
Now the land
where I stand is blood-red
and bland.

Ancient Americans
have heard my footsteps
on the desert sand.
The angry sun
has stared me down
and burned my neck
with its hurtful gaze
whose colors fade
from red to brown.
The crows have laughed
and mocked my
clumsy earth dance
and the land
beneath my feet
is telling jokes
that taste like canned beets.

More towers rise
like male insecurities
into the darkening skies
and beneath the grass
beneath the roots
and the soil and clay and sand
there is still
this land.
This America
who's people
present and past
are shouting at me
in a language
Silly and unfamiliar.
Finances and Catfish.
Boring, soaring
Red Tails and interest rates
into a horizon
peppered with
towers of money, made
to look like morning boners,
as if we are supposed to be afraid.

My feet,
in a liars soft shoes
sink into the ground.
beneath the stones
and the water
and the sound
of a lone tree falling
when no one's around.
Only to find the land
is still the land,
and all this confusion
is just acne
on the youthful face
of another bloodthirsty empire
come again
and one day
just gone.