In America

In America, they say
that all people are free
But America is relative, for They
don’t live in places like here
where single-family zigzags
are all you ever get, and geez…
Even the mannequin positions require degrees.

In America, department stores sell peace
in the form of “Hello, my name is…” nametags
bought by families who leave their keys
just outside the door. Billboards found in grocery bags
offer roundabout ways of suggesting we all eat
ourselves. After all, we are synthetically intact,
made of the very threads of TV
and fiber of those who performed in the previous act
like those step-brothers and half-aunts we never see,
names pulled out of top hats.
Our fingers hold guns and we aim them at our feet
because America is not round, but flat
from sea to shining sea.

In America (rather Small-town U.S.A.),
the feeble attempts at redemption are just
– like the little notecards stuck in bouquets
that insinuate lies and gather dust.
Boxed bubble wrap tells of all the clichés
in which the strings acquired their lust.
Never in all the miles small towns have lived
has any nobody been known to Trust
even though these towns are the auction’s only bid…
(Introducing American rust.)

In America, the small town wonders
are what keep us alive.
Christmas trees are a universal blunder,
allowing the American Dream to survive
in the eyes of a city fallen asunder
whose Regal Cinema coattails lack drive,
only to feed on cigarette butts smashed under
our bare, holy feet – and strive
for broad stripes and bright stars – what is it we have but thunder?
And only vaguely do we wonder
if something new’ll happen today.

Copyright Mallery June 2003