Opinion: This poor maimed thing called America

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It binds its wounds with loving care, and then tears off the bandages on some obscure principle. Many may be able to teach, but few are permitted to learn. Of a million doctors, only a few are made. The great thoughts are drowned out by gibberish from a two dimensional god of scripts and spin.

Where one hand grips, the other will not touch. Taste is good or bad, and some teeth will bite where others won’t. Its genius is denied, repeatedly, but its fools are paid well.

What’s known by one ear is disowned by the other. What’s said is then denied. Born in liberty, no doubt, but enslaving itself by greed, or by silence? The sick remain sick while the price of healing them remains too healthy by half.

Made rich by innovation, obviously, but made poor by conceptual stagnation. A superpower that can’t feed and house itself? A center of learning that refuses to learn from itself?

Where’s the glory in so many empty homes? Who wins a war against themselves? What’s right or wrong about failure, when it’s staring you in the face? Where does poverty lead? Do states and cities and towns fall to pieces in theory, or in fact?

Where are the big ideas and great ideals now, when 300 million people have no peace of mind? How many Novembers will be needed, till they have?

It sees the irrefutable, and looks for answers elsewhere. Some suits are shabby now, some spiels have lost their way. The sales talk is to empty rooms, the marketing is being done to dreams and memories these days.

Ancient machines sit in driveways, icons of another day. Next to them are prams, their mileage is better, but the brakes have yet to be put to the test. On the other hand, you can usually find someone who wants to drive a pram.

So the question: What is this thing?

This poor, maimed thing called America.