State of Beef
A long swim through the excrement of chickens reminds me there is no place for xenophobia in this world. Thousands of hands pack thousands of pounds for their daily bread, and the land glistens with fat during drought in the same way it cradles the toxic flood. For so long we have ignored the paper plate of our existence, the thin cover of soil over the soil.
The facades in the Haymarket District say it all. Entryways for tall hats, and the plain walls stretching back to Omaha, further, holding pipe for plumbing that the earth will not keep installed. Pressure fluctuates here. Prairie is volatile. Combustible gas blows across native grass, and most of the women still have blonde hair.