America After

America After

The sun was bright, our moods were light,
The beers, the cheers when he said “Fight!”
We built the pyre and lit the fire
And closed our eyes to count to three

And when we woke it was no joke:
New rules, old fools, scorched earth, fresh smoke.
Reborn lads and relieved dads
Lit up joints and prayed to Thee:

“O man of gold, what have you sold?
What thrones, what bones, what souls grown cold?
You sing, you sting, you clear the ring
You raise your fist for all to see.

You rule the stage and loose our rage,
You’re here to save, you make us brave.
Hot lead, cold dread: they move, they’re dead:
Their silenced pride, their saddened glee!” …

Eight years now gone but life goes on:
It takes, it breaks, I rise at dawn,
Still give a fuck and load the truck,
Memorial Day! Hail Jackson and Lee!

A feast grown stale, a flag bleached pale
Dry dips, wet chips, slashed tire, closed trail
Picnic ants and podcast rants,
A gun, a deer, an axe, a tree

A Pyrrhic win, a dusty bin
A spike, a pike, a wish, a sin
A pipe of lead, a damaged head
A cage we built while breaking free.

What remains beyond these strains,
The days ablaze, the phantom pains?
What can last when all is past
And our road has hit the sea?

Windswept sands, these bitter lands
The whales on scales, our bloody hands,
The cuts are made, the earth’s afraid,
And all have left but you and me.

Who am I to lead the dead, Moses on the mountain said,
Once enslaved and ill behaved, a people freed but full of dread.
The stars are torn, the stripes are rent, 
The rope is frayed, the pole is bent,
My heart is willing, but my strength is spent
I said we’d make it, but is it really what I meant?

We stayed but, love, we should have fled,
The bacchanal is at an end,
We’ve brought the needle and the thread
But not the skill required to mend.

– GBM, May 26, 2025