That Halo All Shiny.

When he opened the door in the back of Roosevelt's head it felt like pissing on a national icon in a fit of passionate inebriation. The L.A. Lakers swam about his mind, pumping up their high tops before jamming on his hoop, shattering the backboard. Abraham Lincoln turned his head just at the right moment to the surprise of John Wilkes Booth and Truman hesitated with his hand over the switch with a single tear rolling down his cheek like a stampeding buffalo traipsing along the great plains with the arrows whispering amongst it's ears. All of the canals were built when malaria was taken away. And he is a National Treasure as he walks amongst the inner cognitions of a nation's makers, within the brain of the past that made the future. The big stick is still there, except now no one speaks softly. The exclamations echo off the walls and foreign policy is a game changer with a red face and urban sprawl growing like acne upon the face of the earth. The Monroe Doctrine feels like a long time ago and all those tired souls stumbling to the desert are still cursing Manifest Destiny. And it's wasted. And we're here. And we've lost the pill bottle that held our pharmaceutical escape. And as the final shot hangs suspended in the hush of the crowd as the clock clicks to zero with a plethora of dreams and destinies hanging on the results of this game, Mount Rushmore just sits there, all five of them knowing they are made out of a mountain that was sacred to those they helped destroy. The guilt is like a glimmer in the periphery; a superfluous idea amongst concrete pillars of dust that shouldn't be hard. But they are.