If eight years we labored in canals and valleys and on girders and then for four years we spilled **** blood and the Depression is lifted or the depression is lifted or not really.
America, your deep vein thrombosis the size of a lilywhite Toyota Highlander You don’t make things anymore. Your Marxists winter in the empty museums. Your union halls belong to the company. You ought to be Haymarket men, bloodcleaned and ready for anything but instead you workshop one-liners.
America you are afraid to love. America you are afraid of medicine and the medicine you do take, bankrupts you. America reset your passwords and the twenty-year-olds will help you find a mate we promise.
Do you feel how distant you are becoming from yourself? Do you feel how words must towards the things they stand in for like a silhouette like an ironic silhouette like a sketch like a mere shape?
I cannot be certain any longer. No, really, I am losing that skill. I lose myself in coffee cups dreaming of painted lips. My bedtime stories are of Robespierre and Louis Ex-Vee-I; they put me to sleep instantly. I can read this poem eighteen times and never feel a thing. If nothing makes sense, it’s because we decided we didn’t need it.
America do you hate but not really? America do you listen but not really?
America, you’re trying to eat better but the poor and ruined in Missouri still chew on plyboard and drink flat Mountain Dew you want engineers but ******* to starlets
America, not one thing will satisfy you not any screen or voting lever your children wander supermarkets putting everything they find in a basket
America, give Louisiana to the French cede the Black Hills to the Sioux retreat into your telephones and remember Tippecanoe
America a voice is singing from the past and you would do well to listen.