I once pledged allegiance,
When our kings gave us heedence...

To the flag of the United States of America.
In what we had, our states united.

And to the republic, for which it stood,
In all that's benevolent and good.

"ONE NATION UNDER GOD"
The words on credit and dime.
ONE NATION NOW ON HIM TROD,
His people criminals, His book a crime.

The greatest economy crippled by fear.
Readers, I pray, please hear my call,
Rid the future of the blear.
Liberty and Justice for all!

the empty people
miles long
sow the grain again

When I have saved enough
I have this plan; this desire to help
Statistically speaking, there were 560, 000 + homeless people on the streets of America in 2019 alone
As we drive by them; they sit or stand, grimy, foul, and unclean
They hold posters or ask for our spare change so that they may survive
It breaks my heart, despite how infinitesimal it may already be
Every time
I see them, the rejects, the outcasts of society
I offer them a smile, and whatever it is I can
If they need food or a new blanket/ clothes or new shoes
I will stop whatever I am doing and help in whatever way I can because I am not in a rush
In our society today, it appears that we are in a hurry
Society does not stop
Society does not care
They see a smudge of dirt on a sidewalk another human being occupies
Because we have forgotten that they are, like us, people

We race against time as though every single second we hurry is another second we live
Rather than slowing down to truly cherish the seconds
The seconds that pass by us every moment
Think; if only for a moment, we are in the present
But now we are not
This now is already passing us by as you gaze upon this line
I would ask you to take a moment to reflect upon that line
But we are in a hurry; you probably wouldn’t

I could end this right there
And that would be my message
But it’s not my message
I often write and lose track of my message
The message that floats inside my head, knocking down books of knowledge and pictures of memories
My head is something I need to clean out
It’s getting full of random thoughts or questions I wish I had the answer to
Oh my, I’m sorry, I did it again
I got off-topic because my mind has no place to rest, it has no place to stay,
So it wanders and wanders, looking for its own place to lay its own head

We cannot sleep on the streets, in alleyways or rest on unused benches
Because we are scarred and filthy
And we have no hope
We have no hope that tomorrow will be any different
Because we have faced the reality of not having a home or a safety net to fall back on
As I bring this to an end, all I challenge is this;
Carry a case of water in your car or some loaves of bread or both
And when you see a homeless person, remember that they are a human being
And share with them water/bread/food
They need not money if you have; if you can help them in other ways
Do not rush by, but try to help
Ask yourself this: If I end up without a home, would I survive all on my own?

The parks are now empty of all but the trees.
The rot in the woodwork has made itself clear:
the virus reveals a more wicked disease.

If we watch each other with growing unease,
more sinister shadows may draw themselves near.
The parks are now empty of all but the trees.

The nurses and doctors make no guarantees;
their furrowed brows are not at all insincere.
But the virus reveals a more wicked disease.

While some may not fret at a cough or a sneeze,          
our day-to-day life shows a mask more austere:
the parks are now empty of all but the trees.

The wealthy can shelter on yachts overseas,
far-flung from the whims of our mad racketeer,
for he, too, was borne of this wicked disease.

But Justice may not brook the fraud she now sees,
her blindfold being repurposed as protective gear.
The parks are now empty of all but the trees,
and the virus reveals a more wicked disease.

Dear America,

I’m really disappointed in you. It’s a harsh way to start a letter, I know, but that’s truly how I feel.

Our leadership (if you can call it that) has unveiled the deep rooted White supremacy and sexism that this country was founded upon. And that means that there are enough people in this country that feel this way that a man like Trump was able to get elected, that a man like Mitch is able to run the show in Congress.

America as the land, it isn’t your fault. You would’ve been happy to never have been invaded, carved up, forced to be witness to slavery and war and watching your beautiful indigenous people die and be culturally erased (in many ways still today). You are beautiful, with your mountains and trees, your beaches and oceans, your rivers and streams.

You are ugly, though, with your systemic oppression, kids in cages, Black people shot by police, housing segregation, gentrification, fatphobia, mass incarceration, capital consumerism, transphobia, misogyny, lack of mental health and addiction support, no healthcare for all, no equal right to education without stock piles of debt, and you always make a way for the wealthy and White,  but you box out anyone Brown without extra expectations or attempted White washing. You pave ways and repave them, neglecting potholes and broken bridges for those that need, deserve, should have them more. You are the birthplace of internal wars, internalized sexism, colorism, homophobia, racism; you’ve made us hate ourselves as much as you hate us.

America, I expected better with the version of you I read in textbooks. But then, that version of you was written by those whose roads were paved with gold, and they profit from its retelling.

I don’t like you, America. I don’t know what hope there is for us, but I do know that I love my brothers, sisters, siblings of all genders, colors, and creeds who too want to unravel you, America, and build you back up into something better, something equitable, something for all of us.

Maybe there’s hope for you, America. Maybe there’s hope in your (r)evolution.

-Meg

Progress
by Michael R. Burch

There is no sense of urgency
at the local Burger King.

Birds and squirrels squabble outside
for the last scraps of autumn:
remnants of buns,
goopy pulps of dill pickles,
mucousy lettuce,
sesame seeds.

Inside, the workers all move
with the same très-glamorous lethargy,
conserving their energy, one assumes,
for more pressing endeavors: concerts and proms,
pep rallies, keg parties,
reruns of Jenny McCarthy on MTV.

The manager, as usual, is on the phone,
talking to her boyfriend.
She gently smiles,
brushing back wisps of insouciant hair,
ready for the cover of Glamour or Vogue.

Through her filmy white blouse
an indiscreet strap
suspends a lace cup
through which somehow the ****** still shows.
Progress, we guess, ...

and wait patiently in line,
hoping the Pokémons hold out.

NOTE: This poem is almost entirely fiction. There was a Pokemon craze when my son Jeremy was a little boy, and I did see birds and squirrels foraging in parking lots from time to time (and sometimes fed them myself from my car’s window), but everything else is fiction. On the rare occasions that I went to a Burger King, I would go through the drive-in, so I wouldn’t have known who the manager was, or how much time he/she spent on the phone. I think the poem probably started with the image of birds and squirrels squabbling for scraps of food in a parking lot as I waited in a line of slow-moving cars, then evolved as I imagined the hassle of going inside to “speed things up.” Keywords/Tags: America, Americana, American, culture, society, vanity, youth, progress, fast food, video games, Pokemon, MTV, music videos, glamour, models, supermodels, fashion, transparency, see-through, bra, breast, *******

We got an orange president
and no way to report the news
They divided us and they conquered
I don't give a **** about you
You don't give a **** about me
Or us, or them, or justice, or humanity
We just gotta get the thumbs up,
the validation
and the evil green.

We breathe in fear.
    Inhale the powdery mist,
    Trying to see through distorted rays of light.
    Fear has turned day into night,
    Angels into mere flaky shadows
    Oh how does sunshine light an alleyway hidden in the recesses of DetroitChicago land?
    Eyes, lungs, arms reaching for familiarity
    But scared, that this, that this,
    Is reality,
    Unreality,
    Our reality.