Written by Mike Ray
I’m standin’ in the shadow of a rusted-out dream,
where the flag’s frayed edges whip in the wind like a barroom brawl.
This country’s a cathedral with a busted stained-glass heart,
shinin’ with promises our granddaddies whispered to the stars,
opportunities stacked high like poker chips on a riverboat gamble.
But the table’s tilted, brother, and the cards are marked—
we’re screamin’ at each other, spittin’ venom,
flingin’ hate like it’s confetti at a funeral.
The air’s thick with it, heavy as diesel fumes,
and I’m chokin’ on the noise, the clatter of broken tongues,
where nobody listens, and everybody’s got a megaphone.
In the midnight hush, when the world’s a lonesome diner,
and the only sound’s the buzz of a neon sign flickerin’ “Jesus Saves,”
I’m thumbin’ through Dorothy Day’s pages,
her words like a switchblade cuttin’ through the fog.
“Love’s stronger than death,” she growls,
stronger than the fists we raise,
stronger than the barbed wire we wrap ‘round our hearts.
Not some limp-wristed, Hallmark-card love, no sir—
this is love with calluses, love that bleeds,
love that hauls itself up from the ditch
and keeps walkin’ toward the gunfire.
We’ve forgotten how to talk, you and me,
lost the rhythm of sittin’ on a porch swing,
passin’ a jug of sweet tea and a few kind words.
Now it’s all shrapnel and static,
tweets like buckshot, opinions like Molotov cocktails.
We’re burnin’ bridges faster than we can build ‘em,
and the smoke’s so thick I can’t see my neighbor’s face.
Dorothy’s whisperin’ from the grave,
“Love ain’t passive, it’s a bonfire, a holy riot.”
But who’s prayin’ hard enough to move these mountains of hate?
Who’s got the guts to kneel in the dirt and beg for grace?
I see ‘em out there, the weary and the wild,
the ones with busted dreams and empty pockets,
the ones who still believe in somethin’ bigger than themselves.
There’s a waitress slingin’ hashbrowns at 3 a.m.,
slippin’ an extra biscuit to a drifter with hungry eyes.
There’s a kid with a busted guitar,
singin’ hymns to a streetlight congregation.
They’re livin’ Dorothy’s gospel—love as an exchange of gifts,
a loaf of bread, a kind word, a hand to hold in the dark.
These are the sparks that could light the world back up,
if we’d stop pourin’ gasoline on our differences.
So here I am, sittin’ on the curb of this broken paradise,
my heart a jukebox spinnin’ blues and grit.
I’m dreamin’ of a country where we ain’t afraid of love,
where we trade our grudges for a potluck supper,
where we sit at the table, pass the cornbread,
and laugh ‘til the stars come out.
Dorothy’s callin’ us to exercise our souls,
to pray like prizefighters, to love like outlaws.
‘Cause love’s the only currency that don’t depreciate,
the only measure that’ll matter when the final bill comes due.
So let’s raise a glass to the misfits and the mystics,
to the ones who still believe in the second commandment,
who see God in the face of the stranger at the bus stop.
Let’s tear down these mountains of hate with our bare hands,
build a bridge with the scraps of our broken dreams.
This country’s a fixer-upper, a jangle of hope and hurt,
but if we love like Dorothy, fierce and unafraid,
we might just find our way back to each other,
back to the heart of this wild, wounded land.
Text © Mike Ray
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