This land.  Blood-streaked land.  Land of war.  No white flags.  Only the opportunity for peace.  A slight opportunity, held down and water-boarded in a cold basement somewhere.  Fat greed with teeth.  A belly that drags across the ground.  

A land of compensation.  Bigger toys, less sharing.  Bold landscape.  Where snarling cities butt up against towering trees.  This land.  Supposedly our land.  Democracy where the public rules.  The ballots filled by tired, shaky hands.  The ballot box looking a lot like a trash compactor.

This land.  Openly wrong.  An ugly herd, barking too loud for no good reason.  This land — brilliant.  Built-in virus of creativity.  Incurable population, crawling with ideas.  Innovators by choice.  Innovators by force.  Boredom beaten back with art and magic, scarred with backward beauty.

This land.  Buy everything you see — believe none of it.  Land of fear, veiled with power.  Everything you’ve heard about this land is true.  Powerhouse — power plants.  A potent pollutant.  The brightest dreams sleeping side by side with the darkest nightmares.

And when this big bad land falls down to sleep, if you listen closely, you’ll still hear the music.  Beyond the stink and the horror, there’s a rhythm, a heartbeat playing somewhere in the distance.  That heartbeat belongs to the creatives —the enduring virus which keeps this land alive.