My American flag is on fire. It has always burned. It is a battle flag which has never been at peace. On the battlefield, in the classroom, at the court house, sewn into the jackets of teenagers – always fighting, burning, uncomfortable in its space. My flag is stained with blood, torn by fear, and lost in a stale fog of lies and convent political fantasy. It has been dragged in the dirt, pissed upon, and rolled in the feces of greed. Lost, my flag returns. We can not be separated, my flag and me. It sets itself on fire fueled by my souls demand for Freedom. Personal liberty is human nature. My life, my way, for me and those I love. What is being insisting upon - with spit fire and curses - is that the ground I stand upon – where ever I stand – is a liberated zone. Men can hold a flag that looks American. They can wave that crisp clean polyester rag with passion - that is not my flag. They recite a pledge of allegiance to an industrial song that says kneel, obey and serve. I can not, shall not, will not bend a knee to any man's God, greed, or good intentions however politely wrapped in rhetoric or bible verses. I am a romantic, and as long as I can daydream, a government of the people, by the people and for the people will fly this flag. This is my flag, I was born to it. Come and take it. I'll take it back and you will feel the burn. My flag is on fire.