We the People (American Lament) Take a needle, poke a hole in the American pipe dream, and watch it all deflate. We the people never knew how to care for ourselves, our neighbors, let alone the ones that we call strange. We grasp with cowardice to table scraps of life, liberty, happiness, like broken records that keep screeching “we are winning.” We drench our dreams in destiny, like creamy white ranch sauce, so manifest, and love the hero’s journey like it’s ours. We look, like children, for faith healers at the river who can disappear our issues, trip and fall in existential frantic rush to save our souls. We have our pick of saviors, never fail to choose false ones, while real ones we twist violently to make them what they never meant to be. We hold free speech so precious as we shout down all the voices that might teach us, ride our sacred cows like soapboxes up to the ghost town on the hill that never was a beacon to the watching world. We pile our things around us in a huddle as though they could save. And if a rag-clothed rabbi spit, made mud, and offered it to put upon our eyes, might we be brave enough to open them?