Thanksgiving Day Prayer Poem by James Murdock

Today we bow our piggy faces down toward
thermoplastic tables to give
thanks for mother Massasoit.
Barely minutes we have for rituals.
Crispy manufactured beasts of farms
we slobber for lay waiting among
coupons for dark Friday.
Commercials do not allow for prayerful minds.
Yet we come to thank you, green gaia.
For harvest times now and gone. For
the red children cut from the cloth of the wild,
who welcomed our bearded brethren to the
rocky shores of New Plymouth Sound.
Who gave us fish, corn, and lobster that we
might be sustained. Sustained enough to draw
our cross-shaped dagger to slice
the entreating throats of their young ones.
We thank you for free nations built on the
bloody backs of hymning slaves. For whiskey
and rattlesnakes. For the infinite vacuum of
ghastly suburbia we have planted on
still sacred earth. We give thanks for distractions
which withdraw any virtue that might
make us think or act. Never would we
crowd the streets for justice to be served,
but for televisions, yes.
Om-en.