The Land

A sinewy faith built rough cabins. We were pleased to claim this land for Jesus. We raised cities that were bear free. Everything soared; later crime and meth rose even higher. Cracks appeared where a garish paint had weathered the sky. Plaster flamingos crumbled, angelic limbs hung down caught in ceiling fissures. Pink plastic arrows littered concrete. It was a Mall dream; it was our dream. We began to order stuff from worker ants in other countries. Plaid went in and out of fashion, Horseless cowboys kept up the long tradition of truck wrangling. Impedimenta impeded the improperly taught. Log cabins transported themselves to theme parks, too little hope clogged casinos floors, rage stalked the freeways. God spoke to us, urged us to fill storage units with our long raked-over crap, sad holy relics in duct taped boxes - yet neatly piled in a persnickety Midwest way.