the fourth.

off in the distance
the sounds of war
come in the shape
of electric bouquets
to sting the night sky
to sever hasty digits,
breeding tiny soldiers,
wild jingoists.

this is our america.
our only victory is survival.

the blood of patriots
skims our rivers;
we have yet to face our reflection.
we are opaque, white and blue
for the majesties promised
in forged edict--

a country sculpted by swindlers
thieving drunken murderers
yet the expectation
that we are to be classed
civilized
taxed for mother nation
privileged and monitored.

this is our america
where our plight
is earth's burden.