Red toast and tequila in a dust storm on the far reaches of some blown out city in the desolate west. Liplock, Tejas. The land of dirt and death. Treeless scrapes and scars. Pitchforks, boredom. Hot houses and hay fires. HP butterheads play Roman soldiers. The sun is relentless. The decay is precious and accepted.

Knives talk beneath the shimmering sun. Blades flicker. Blood spatters in the sand. Droplets and rivulets of agony and guilt. Knees on buckled asphalt. Prayer hands play shotgun to the heavens. God is too scared to do anything. He lets his believers and the world burn. Where’s the love and mercy? Just a Dumpster fire parade. Men of faith butcher the brown-skinned and the alternative lovers. They behold a book they’ve never read. Have they read any book? Big fat guts and stupid hats and asses. Boisterous breasts and sour trailer sweat. Ignorant swastikas and dumbfounded religion. Dirty pools and hoarding. Disrespected flags flutter in the hot wind. Yellow teeth make a stupid grin at the polling place. Statues in stunning sun have bigger brains and know better.

Red toast at a western picnic table scratched with love hearts beneath a New Mexican baby blue sky and burning pinon in the air. Melodious flute people, paranormal pastors, congested congregants. A covered veranda with a concrete floor. Bolted benches. Prayer circles and circle jerks. Howling to a peyote moon. That hollow, green moon with the little blue men inside. A hippie death star, alien bases on the dark side. We’re being watched and laughed at. The universe thinks we’re nothing but a bunch of ignorant, selfish, hateful jerks. And they are right. The jerk store called, and they’re overstocked with humans. It’s getting late. Time to shut out the fractured world, the dead America. Time to dream of magical castles and Norway.

By

Aaron Echoes August