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Matthew Harlovic Oct 2014
The Star-Spangled Banner are Our Mangled Mannerisms

© Matthew Harlovic
To the Anti-American Teacher…We Knew You Were Pro-World

A clause in your contract slated your signature for patriotism.
You never signed, they never checked, but you took down your flag
after that.
They  didn’t check that either.
So, you stripped and tacked and taped and striped all the flags
from all the world to the walls.

On the east, sat Uraguay, and Paraguay, and Peru.
On the west, we went to Austria, and Hungary, and Bangladesh
for good measure.
But the north wall was your northern star – the shining one
among the rest.
The Chinese stars of social class contrasted against the five-pointed red one, the
one next to the ending of a Tsar in a February Revolution, a marking point found – not in our textbooks – but in all the places you have been.

Oh, the places you’ll go, you began.

In Israel, you had gone in your college years, and you learned of bamboo
tattoos in Thailand, but Korean was a class you completed in
France of all places, and I never had the chance to see the locations of
the south wall.

You were fired.

Over night, they tore you from the walls, lone of which, they left the
tape tacked up in four corners, a collection in each place of a flag
we once saw before us. In my desk, you slipped a map inside.

Oh, the places you’ll go, you wrote.

Such a sorrowful tune.
Elioinai Oct 2014
"I thought we were good people, Mama"
"It was the books you read,
Not the words I said,
my child.
I didn't spare your ears,
and when you threatened tears,
I let the truth march on"
"Then how did I grow being proud,
singing our national anthems loud,
sure it was good to be American?
My country has stolen, my country has *****, made every poisened mistake,
and it WON'T STOP!"
" That is true,
my child, but it is good to be you.
Apologize for your cousins and fathers and aunts, if you must,
and your purchased slave chocolate,
slave t-shirts, and jewelry
But NEVER,
my child,
not EVER,
should you apologize for being yourself"
Being a child of an Army brat fathet  and a mother who grew up between France, Cot'd Ivoire and the US, I may not be stereotypically American minded but I am learning not to be ashamed of me even as I learn my true history.
Insufficient Oct 2014
The old fable covers a doctrine ever new and sublime; that there is One Man, — present to all particular men only partially, or through one faculty; and that you must take the whole society to find the whole man. Man is not a farmer, or a professor, or an engineer, but he is all. Man is priest, and scholar, and statesman, and producer, and soldier. In the divided or social state, these functions are parcelled out to individuals, each of whom aims to do his stint of the joint work, whilst each other performs his. The fable implies, that the individual, to possess himself, must sometimes return from his own labor to embrace all the other laborers. But unfortunately, this original unit, this fountain of power, has been so distributed to multitudes, has been so minutely subdivided and peddled out, that it is spilled into drops, and cannot be gathered. The state of society is one in which the members have suffered amputation from the trunk, and strut about so many walking monsters, — a good finger, a neck, a stomach, an elbow, but never a man.

Man is thus metamorphosed into a thing, into many things. The planter, who is Man sent out into the field to gather food, is seldom cheered by any idea of the true dignity of his ministry. He sees his bushel and his cart, and nothing beyond, and sinks into the farmer, instead of Man on the farm. The tradesman scarcely ever gives an ideal worth to his work, but is ridden by the routine of his craft, and the soul is subject to dollars. The priest becomes a form; the attorney, a statute-book; the mechanic, a machine; the sailor, a rope of a ship.
Excerpt from an Oration delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society, at Cambridge, August 31, 1837 by Emerson
Rose Ruminations Oct 2014
She hates that she is a woman
The putrefying weakness perceived in the curves of her body
The naivete shown in her blues
With the unintentional flutter of butterfly lashes
That refuse to meet the glances of those that pass by
The fear-- Of what?
That stereotypes are true?
She doesn't even know
And it sickens her.

She sickens herself.

She hates that she is white
The blandest vanilla
The marble statue
Somehow revered
Worshiped
Privileged
But simultaneously overlooked
Boring
Unimportant
The Caucasian mongrel
In light of the fact that her People
Have no proud history
Which she can name herself heir to

She hates that she is middle class
Not poor enough to struggle
Not rich enough to be free
Just situated dully in the middle
A footnote in the statistic
That they tell her she must use
To identify herself

She hates that her belief system
Has to be called by a name
That she has to choose
To be a part of a group
As part of her "identity"
And she is not allowed
To stand by her own integrity

She hates that she is American
The pudgy, loud-mouthed, laterally-speaking nation
The brashly jumps into conflict
Guns blazing
As its political system decays
In the stench of its overwhelming debt and corruption

But in truth
She hates
That they force her
To whittle her essence down
Into Gender, Race, Class, Religion, and Nationality
A *****-inducing statistic

As if there was nothing more to her
Than the facts surrounding her existence
Simon Obirek Sep 2014
looking around
in the room
she flashes her teeth
and winks to the crowd.

the pursuit of happiness
is a rough one
every boulevard covered
with pastel-shaded
houses.

nothing is real
no nature, no oceans, no sky
everything is just
tinsel smiles and plastic kisses,
just ikea boxes pinned to the walls
for decoration.
Kyle Kulseth Jul 2014
Grey-Green-Red-Brown Dawn
stains right through a.m. sky
                     so the atmosphere
                     looks weird today.
The forecast calls for heat again;
that silent, seething drum that beats
        the blood-drenched dollar sky--
beats out a March of Ages--

beats us copper lumps to shape.

The shelf we Occupy on this drifting
westward continent, constructed from
the flesh that fell from our fathers' hands,
from the bones of distant lands
becomes a dusty storage closet
        for the corpses of our days

Our days--aha.
That's supply and demand, kid.
What's a life but flesh-time?
And what's time if not money?
Nothing!
Nothing is anything
                   but money.
You. Are money.
Like time.
Sleep well tonight. And set your clock.
You gotta work to buy their robots
that **** Mid-Eastern skies
(and Midwestern ones alike)

Sink real slow beneath the surface
of that rising ocean of noise--
growing louder--hot air melting ice caps.
Watch that boiling, acid ocean
roll in on the tide and sink
beneath the waves of noise--
               of monotone voices--
sawdust seasoning on cardboard--
crying, "These colors don't run!"
and, "Stand your ground!"
and for fun, when bored, answer the
                 Call of Duty.
It's that silent, seething drum

beating 'gainst THE TERRORISTS
while we deny the summer heat
as we sweat in SUPERBOWL SUNDAY dreams,
Like it beat against the COMMUNISTS
through all our TOP GUN weekends,
Like it drums up portraits of
              vampire fanged IMMIGRANTS
                                           and ILLEGALS
while we guzzle our BEER
and sweat beneath those acne-scarred skies
on the FOURTH OF JULY.

Sleep well tonight

And set your clock.

Don't wanna be late for work,
to buy their robots that **** Mid-Eastern skies
          (and Midwestern ones alike).

What's that hum outside your window tonight,
whirring, buzzing
                 droning
beneath the blood-drenched dollar sky?
Jack Gladstone Jul 2014
we were just two more methland residents, dreams floating in our heads.
we were hoping to prove the american dream was not quite really dead.

but times sure change and so do dreams.

i guess.

We're not the next Spielbergs
We're not the next Mansons
we're too Fu^&ed; up for that.

but maybe some of our dreams won't die.
you and I can keep some alive.

We're not the next Clintons
We're not the next Tolstoys
we're not skilled enough for that.

I'll carry the 2.5 kids if you will buy the house.
They will paint the picket fence white and we'll hide
quiet as mice but acting like rabbits.

I'm not Ward and you're not June
but this will work out anyway.

we're not the next Cleavers
we're not the next Bradys
We're at least better than that.
SP Blackwell Jul 2014
i can not even write this
because it will be anti
american
unpatriotic
and an
insult to
the land
of freedom
i was born in.
I can not even write this
because I am the first
generation
daughter
child
born in
the land
of freedom.
I can not write this
because my abuela
will tell me that I am
lebanese
cuban
and i was
born in
the land of
freedom.
i can not even write this
because my Tio
who came to
America
at the age of 6
and had “adjustment”
issues will remind me that
I
Am
American.
Tio will tell me that
I
am privileged.
because I was
born in the
land of freedom.
Abuela will remind me
that CUBA is
dead.
Abuie will remind me
to hush about all things
Arabic and Lebanese
because I am
American
born in the
land of freedom.
She reminds to hush
about the black
eyes
that see past
this land to the past
of other places
that whisper
my name.
They remind me
that I am
American and
not a communist
not a terrorist
not a girl who
hears her name
sung in the winds
of other lands
which i have not
wandered.
Abuela reminds me
to not yearn for
white sandy beaches
with waves that break
on a rock laiden wall.
Abuie reminds me
to ignore the need
for hot sand
beneath my feet
and wafting smell
of foreign spices
that are
unknown
to those born
in the land of freedom.
In the land of
freedom?
Don Bouchard Jul 2014
Gymnasiums
Modern battlegrounds,,
Those days...

Blood on the floor,
And spittle.

Rival towns,
White - Red.

Sitting Bull long gone,
Custer long dead.

Native sons,
Sons of pioneers
Still locked in enmities,
Remembrances of treaties broken,
Lying words,
Hatreds long unspoken.

So much of fear
So little trust,
Braggarts claiming coup,
Braggarts thinking war
Through basketball.

So it was one night
I slipped and fell
In a reservation gym,
Heard the hiss and laughter,
Felt the rush of fear...
Anger came.

Before my racist pride
Could grow,
I felt a hand,
Heard a voice,
"You okay?'
Spike Bighorn
Pulled me to my feet
Before a silent crowd.

A quiet act of bravery
That spoke aloud
Made me see the way
Through hate,
Set me on a path
To lead me forty years....

An act of kindness
In a place of fear
Defuses tension,
Ends the wars,
Shames the cowards,
Fills the void
With hope.

-------------------
Recollection of a true story, 1977, Brockton, Montana. Arch rival towns, Lambert (Lions) and Brockton (Warriors) had hated each other for many years...****** fights on the game floors, destruction in the locker rooms, name-calling and death threats.... Spike Bighorn stepped up that night on his home floor and lifted a dumb White farm kid to his feet, slapped him on the back, and became a HERO and EXAMPLE to me for the rest of my life. People must have been watching Spike's life because he became a tribal leader on the Fort Peck Reservation, and is now serving us all through U.S. government leadership. I hope I am honoring him with this poem He is a great American. Don Bouchard
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