The skies over America br are vibrant as a Pollock painting br and dissonant as a Schoenberg br symphony. They’re the canvas br on which we scrawl the graffiti br of our lives. br br Ours is a garden where br every flower may flourish, br bitter nightshade and evening br primrose, a Mendelian greenhouse br where hybrids are the rule br and whore lies down with priest. br br We’re enamored of the camera. br If we could, we’d like to film br the destruction of the world, br even though no one would be left br to watch it explode a second time br except a few seagulls. br br America was born to immigrant br parents in a sharecropper’s shack. br Three acres and a mule were its br only possessions. It was suckled br on hard work, cheap whiskey, br tobacco, cornbread and collard greens, br and the promise of eternal life. br br The skies over America br are crumbling. They’re responding br well to therapy. They need br more antioxidants, plastic surgery, br yoga lessons. They’re weeping. br The skies over America are br closed for remodeling.