In the land of cornfields so endless
they become brushstrokes
of green and yellow from a moving vehicle,
where hog farms are more prevalent than opportunity.
while the mornings glisten like porcelain shards,
there is a violence to the meteorological music:
quiet thunder murmurs through afternoons;
haunting chorals suggest inevitable decay.
it’s the high drama of a world
resisting a hostile existence
by finding joy in a community
with a few thorns of melodic dissent.
whiskey is overflowing in every years-worn glass,
blue collars are loose,
and someone’s in the corner shit-faced,
ranting about the government.