every fourth day in July:
as if it's brand new
for the two hundred
and thirty-fifth time this day,
the taste of freedom
never going stale
in our loud American mouths
singing "Battle Hymn".
But the flag flies not
over all-white faces and
lily-white spirits.
A homogeneous
homeland has never been and never will
be America.
So, what are we when
we pledge allegiance to that
high-flying banner?
We are the dead men.
We are many King Georges
and King Washington.
We are Jefferson,
Madison, Grant, Pickett, Lee,
Jackson, Lincoln, Booth.
We are Hoovervilles,
Reaganomics, Franklin stoves,
and Stonewall's Lost Cause.
We are dead places.
We are Gettysburg, Sumter,
Concord, and Ground Zero.
We are the glory
and the nightmare, all those stars
and stripes forever.
We speak all the tongues
and have invented a few
more along the way.
We are loyal to
everyone and to no one,
but none more than "I".
We love God, we love
GaGa, we love Krishna, and
we love McDonald's.
We worship pizza
and tostones, tamales,
and every bratwurst.
America with
a capital "A", don't wear
it out, thankyasir,
is why and how
I write this. I'll salute our
flag as fireworks
from China fill our
skies with simulated bursts
of flame that made a
Mr. Scott Key think,
"I think America is
being born right now."
