Happy Thanksgiving, Grand Marshal Andrew Jackson

King Mob on the Meridian claiming
this land is ours 
in the affirmative mode which animates even
the Communists here 
the three-pounds of flax 
who wax zen on the temple mounds of the erased 

Shuck oysters and weave the
folksonomy of despair from threads golden like
the ever yellow afterglow over the bay below
you sing of this place like you own it, you
like you could own Cassiopeia and
Wite-Out the inky spaces in between