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Hold tight to

cleverly imagined truths,

art and rainbow stained,

All text is an eventual lie,

in cursive or print,

whichever the chosen medium,

crass and laconic 

in the mornings wet fog,

refusing to rise from its 

too close to ground slumber,

burning like wildfires on the rising dawn,

We're all removed (forced marched) to 

the crystal-like clear darkness

of the american wilderness,

far from the maternity wards 

of claustrophobic sprawling suburban America,

waving to passersby at 180 mph

somewhere along the sad roads,

dancing our way through the sad fiber-optic dance,

ignorant of our shared sadness,

human and spambot alike.