Saying "uncle" after thirty-five years of wage labor. The sky is a red sound you can't forget. Across the horizon, whales go crazy hearing nuclear subs perform their sonic tests. The 1960s were a possibility that was assassinated person-by-person. A woman in a polka dot dress runs through The Ambassador Hotel yelling, "We killed him! We killed Bobby Kennedy!" We were born into landscapes made by people indifferent to us. We're not meant to know of them. I'll never pick a flower or strum a guitar for Ronald Reagan, even though he projected himself across the sky of my youth like a mayonnaise packet splattering across acres of white bread. I'll never write a love poem to Oliver North, even though he was a knight sent to deliver a dead dream onto the cold front porch of my youth. I'll never drive a Winnebago onto George Bush's Jr's ranch, even though he lit up the planet like a century of torches tossed into a forest.
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