We Are Holograms

Ladies and gentlemen, tonights are the nights that define us

     and who we are as sad melodies inform us of our circumstances

Never forget me, and the adobe winds that whistle salvation

     across jersy shores at midnight where narrow eyed journalists

     were burned alive

And live by the scruffy-bushed portraits of veterans resting on
     our sequoian mantle and by the indignant flames nestled in

     limestone hearths

Our times are ruminating on the golden arches of ronald
     raptures and the souls of rescued rappers; Whitman and
     Ginsberg are weeping

Take root in the honesty of Patagonia and Adirondack lapping
     the summations of Navajo chronicles and the butcher
     allegories of Constantinople

Dream of the Vatican and Oz on the same naked night and you
     will know the bruised bones of us iridescent holograms