Letter to 1964

Now in this day
God has been defeated.
The waters run naked,
dirty.  And we're all
fried by the field of grass
you left us at the roadside.
Faked, bottomed out,
our new century is a deep
lake so blue, endless.
On what night
did you arrive and
under what stars?
Here the sky is cracked
colonized by signals,
microwave beams.
I'm trying to be alone but I
can't.  Your songs
don't need any religion,
they're holy by
all accounts.  By our
days you were numbered,
anointed in time
for color TV.