I love Nowhere where the factories die of malnutrition.

I love Nowhere where there are no roads, no rivers, no in-
          teresting Indians.

Where history is invented in the History Department and
          there are no centennials of anything,

Where every tree is planted by hand and has a private tutor.

Where the “parts” have to be ordered and the sky settles all
          questions,

Where travelers from California bitch at the backwardness
          and New Yorkers step on the gas in a panic,

Where the grass in winter is gray not brown,

Where the population diminishes.

Here on the boundary of the hired West, equidistant from
          every tourist office, and the air is washed by distance,
          here at last there is nothing to recommend.

May no one ever attempt a recommendation; Chicago be as
          far as Karachi.

Though the warriors come with rockets, may they fall off the
          trucks.

May the voting be light and the clouds like a cruise and the
          criminal boredom enter the district of hogs.

I love Nowhere where the human brag is a brag of neither
          time nor place,

But an elephant house of Smithsonian bones and the white
          cathedrals of grain,

The feeding-lots in the snow with the steers huddled in sym-
          metrical misery, backs to the sleet,

To beef us up in the Beef State plains, something to look at.