I can relate anything to the idea of America.
It consumes my breath and the steadiness of my hand. It consumes where I am and how I'm reacting and it consumes sixteen.
When I am ready to vote it will be one of the biggest elections our country has ever participated in.
"An election is coming. Universal peace is declared and the foxes have a sincere interest in prolonging the lives of the poultry. " -T.S Eliot
That could be nice. However, the currents I'm pulled into are overwhelming. I used to think I knew what I believed in. Now everything's up in the air, chasing the tails of what is in front of them.
So I want to find it. America, that is, and I guess this is documentation.
I half believe that if i find her, I will find myself. But I guess I'm not the first to come up with that idea.


That American dream Hunter S. Thompson looked and feared and loathed for in Las Vegas, I want to take that dream and cradle it in my arms, nurse it like a baby.
I'm tired of the Beats and their road. They are probably tired of themselves.
My generation has to find their own journey because it is too easy to get across to those other coasts these days. What makes the American Dream and journey so desirable, a holy grail of freedom, is that it runs parallel to the interstates of your own mind's journey.
That is all this is, ghosts and journeys, and America, and cars. I am fascinated by them all. I want to know which one is the real Jasper Johns American Flag?:

Choice A:


or Choice B:


And which one is just layers of newspaper?
The mucked up muddled over medium?


I write letters to Walt Whitman in my head over and over again, asking what the tune was to that song again. I can't seem to pick it up. I want to hear Uncle Sam's voice, and use those notes to prove something rather than all of this postulation.

I'm making and ultimatum, America, a list of things to find within you, the things for my journey, and way to show progression. If I don't have some sort of restraints and guidelines I will end up with a medicine bag and a shark of a car roaring over the deserts of the midwest.

The Things I Must Stumble Upon Between the Folds of Your Constitution:
1.) Your children, or are they bastards these days? Fatherless with only our surrogate Lady Liberty to serve as mother? Are we a hopeless bunch?
2.) Your enemies, they say to keep them closer. To find you America, so well sheathed and masked, I need to know who exactly we're fighting against first.
3.) The eagle. I want to see her.
4.) A public execution
5.) The bowels of your money system
6.) Amber waves of grain
7.) The light; it is there I know.
8.) The spiritual and the intellect that is still somewhere embedded behind our physical country. I've learned that things come and go in cycles, but somewhere between Tammy Faye Baker and Thomas Paine, there inlies those other needs, the thrist for knowledge and quest for a higher meaning-- no booty involved.
9.) A celebrity: America, your obsession with tabloids and superstars intrigues me. Let me touch one and taste the monarchy.
10.)Self-assurance. That all of this isn't in vain, or sounds silly. Because I doubt my legitimacy more than I doubt the idea of you existing in me anymore.

My recent comparison is that being in America at sixteen years old, is a trailer sitting on the outskirts of New Hope, Alabama, with it's borders and boundries defined by infinite lights:

That light is always on at the end of Gatsby's bay, and now I find it stitched across the top of thin metal, and I'm drawn to it, moth to a flame.