There is something about the man

we cannot leave

in our imagination,

we are unwilling to Lee Harvey alone

Afraid that in the dark, the cold,

the endless expanse of futility

the incarnate carnage of a planet beneath the apes

that there will be noe passion

but pain:

some middle-aged man hanging out alone

in a vacant room with a twelve-dollar rifle,

a Playboy magazine,

and a spare pair of socks.

 

We have a vision,

an imagination,

that this country spans,

coast to fuming coast, 

that the wheels of industry

are imense and unstoppable,

the legacy of concern,

reaching over all heads,

growing,

breaching in transcendental fire,

that this will not succumb to a small lonely man

with a mail-order bride.