Thomas Pynchon & America

You remain the least of their
paranoid worries, smouldering
up the Hudson flowing grey
hair. They paid for tips once;

now change is loose, vengeance.
Cold uniformed stares outside
exits and gas stations. Over
platforms red numbers, an eye

for a letter. Destinations yelp
songs for the settled. Obvious
melodies time warp plotlines
distinguished by our humour.

Ascend gently into a dim light,
hands stretching out to catch
the glowing halos of redwood
like giant laser beams of truth.

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