Twenty-Four Million by Christopher A. Lane

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seeing their twenty-four million eyes is almost impossible from middle-America with Bullwinkle and Rocky banging at our ears, the slap and tickle foreplay of hot-mama buy-it-now (pay later), little green monsters residing in every red, white, and blue chest, waving flags at Walmart and loading the minivan with paper towels, doritos, and cases of pepsi driving like a rabid pig up powers blvd, giving every other late-for-work porker the finger we eat until our belts explode and we flow over, down waddling amebas with thick, gluttonous smiles a nation in the image of Jabba the Hut unfeeling, unable to appreciate what it is to be alone, hungry, diseased, tossed casually, ruthlessly to the margins of the page wrapped in gauze shrouds, we wriggle to and from unconsciousness, miserable and tight-fisted, in desperate possession of what we want, abysmally ashamed: twenty-four million eyes suffering in the absence of true religion, wondering where all the angels have gone

Contact Christopher A. Lane at: ShamblinGait@aol.com