Believing we'll find happiness in a set of dimes;

our voices lob out through the radio, we sing

half-hearted to dim witted critics, the shadowy

smoke rising through our need. We sing loudly

and boldy into the bars, out on the open streets,

the echo of our names fading. David all thin

and bones, the endless cigarette burning

as his hand shook. He nervously followed a girl.

She was a thin runner with lips maroon believing

in fame, the fast paced track through marathons

and meets, and she begged him always to go

away. Believing we'll find happiness in children

and debts, we buy, consume. We sing hoarsely

for pools, for boats, our eyes full of haste. Weary

at night we fall into soft mattresses and dream. Elite

and golden on trips to Bombay purchasing beads,

rugs, speaking of karma, planning a profit on resale.

Talk of Ghandi, though we've never endured. A day

of clouds and thick darkness. A fire consumes us. Pale

America, like a mighty people arranged for battle.

This fire devours the wilderness. And Young

Goodman Brown in the forests, dark in dreams,

as if behind us a flame burns. The crackling

flame of consumption, and the poor along borders,

where tumbleweeds turn and winds rip and peck,

where the land stretches to sun, and all a lit

immigrants tread to it, multitudes upon multitudes.