Semen has flowed. The danger is past.

This is an old proverb from a sunken country, a made-up country, a country that no longer exists or never did. This mother country with its many flaring mother tongues and tidals of flowing semen represents the Great Flood. Semen being the seed-carrier of disasters and renaissance, semen creating the dreamscape upon which the final arks float like popped corks on rolling froth and fizz. To scale it down to human-sized proportions (leaving behind biblical rhapsodizing): If you believe your genus flows into immaterial means, if you believe you are dream-wedded particles locked into a rockabilly dance and crane, if you believe … impossibility will appoint your hands countless tasks. The circus in your head is the circus in your head. It has nothing to do with semen. And everything. Semen has flowed. The circus has passed. Like that.

The bubbling fount in which we deeply yearn to drown is God-semen without fail. We wish to go on and on, bobbing, recuperating, engaged to God-semen. On and on and on, built to last. Like a Ford truck commercial. America being trapped in arrested adolescence, and its need to prove itself is inalienable and unresolvable, part of a growth process. Except, and here’s the kicker, if adolescence remains stillborn, prolonged puberty leaves the afflicted teen with a case of psychic gonorrhea, in a state of heightened distress, longing and murder-minded fantasies. American semen is clotted with red pep and soap bubbles. Its bravado being Mecha-Godzilla on steroids.