Poem for America At the End of Her Rope


by Liam

In America they train us in school to be good consumers, ready to buy and sell the soul of the world, hardened to the sight of blood the sound of anguish or the feeling of too much compassion; allergic to our own human nature; to love and sex, to sensual expression in long kind moments —

Leaving us with only the quick and brutal punishing acts of old testament fathers as our sole means of expression;

We limp forward, a tenth of what we were before they annihilated us in those classrooms and Sunday schools and at the feet of our drunken fathers and mothers; sipping the blood of their servant savior to guide them through the darkness;

We hang our rattled public faces on our hollowed cheeks and scrape on the thinnest veneer of Jesus-Wax™ to tell the people around us that we all behave according to the same lie;

We drive the bile down with our daily sublimation into video game cell phone self-abasement;

We spill our rebellion of consciousness into the portrait of People magazine “scandals” with which we suck up the pleasure of other’s tristes and menages in a German act of pleasure at our own pain masquerading in the lives of others; wishing it were us, and thanking the Gods of spite and gossip that it never is (but wishing still, and spilling more into the chat room and the hotel room and behind any closed door we can find at the bar)…

We drive home, yelling at the freeway, screaming with the ear-raping hate rap pop on the radio that numbs and dulls our senses…

Eying the road,

Making eyes behind eyes,

Frightened deer in the supermarket, our Jesus-Wax™ wearing thin and our mood unquenchable;

Afraid of every nationality, every religion, every philosophy that isn’t televised; every way of being that is not enforced, endorsed and produced by the state censors in the land of machine-age Prozac,

Non-stop all night wheel rattling droning hum of the highways that encircle our beds grinds our thoughts to molten ash; by morning we haven’t slept but on the surface of the place called sleep…

Because dreams would tell us the truth, so must be destroyed…

And tomorrow is another day. Tomorrow is another day. Tomorrow is another

Pay taxes. Get in line. Watch the movie. Go to sleep driving. When it’s time to be over, the pharmacists will help you make it as painful as possible…



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