SECTION SIX
POETRY PAGE TWO

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COLUMN NINETY-THREE, JUNE 15, 2003
(Copyright © 2003 The Blacklisted Journalist)

AN AMERICAN MANTRA
I am sick to the marrow of my bones, America
and it doesn't feel like I'm going to be getting better any time soon...if I ever get better
and it doesn't sound like you care even though you told me you would when I was small
    and trusting and you came on so pure to me using the same words you use today
   
except I could believe them then to my great disappointment
and it doesn't look like oh beautiful for spacious skies is really the agenda you've got in
|
    gear as your juggernaut life of the rich and famous rolls down the information super
    toll road to a future I can't see even though I've got my eye on the signs of the times
and I don't know what went wrong when
America...I am sick to the marrow of my bones and now you see it now you don't
and just how did the good become little more than a beard for the bad and the ugly and
    who in the name of all that's holy managed to pull it off without making headlines or
    we interrupt this program for an important news bulletin and where the hell is truth
    justice and the American way when you really need it
and, as long as we're asking, exactly where is the mountain of words and phrases and
    carefully constructed disclaimers under which you've buried god
and why can't he she or it simply resurrect him- her- or itself during prime time for the
    benefit of the tired poor hungry masses unable to leap faith with a single bound...not
    without a hand at any rate
and will everything old turn new again...ever
and will I take an easy breath again...ever
and is it really necessary to foul the air when you sweeten the pot
America...I am sick to the marrow of my bones and your sea to shining sea is tarnished
and somewhere someone is waiting for their ship to come in and you don't care if it
    never arrives
and what is the rest story
and why do you hide it so well
is it something I should know
is it something I want to know
is it something I'm better off not knowing...and exactly who is making that decision
America...I am sick to the marrow of my bones and not only isn't there a doctor in the
    house, but your HMO is keeping me SOL PDQ
and where is this brave new world you promised me...all I see is a conglomeration of
    crime drama reality forensics tv edumercials and advertorials lip synched by
    network animatronics filling the nanoseconds between a word from our sponsor we'll
    be right back and a word from our sponsor we'll be right back
and if you can keep me alive longer why can't you keep me alive better...and what the
    hell is longer worth when the real choice isn't between for better or for worse
    because there is no better on the table...just longer
and don't you think I can see what you're doing?
America...I am sick to the marrow of my bones and from what I hear you’re driving the
    price of marow sky high
and from what I hear you’re driving the price of narrow-mindedness gutter low
and from what I hear you’re letting the market decide the price of constitutional
    amendments relating to his her their my right to privacy...in the voting booth...in the
   
confessional...in the bedroom...in the bathroom...in the grave                    
so what do you have to say for yourself, America?
why are you building football stadiums instead of classrooms?
why are you training undercover operatives instead of teachers?
and why are you developing new ways of tracking my moves instead of healing my
    tracks?
When do you simply play by the rules you taught me to play by and stop the play
   
acting?
America...I am sick to the marrow of my bones and I'm in better shape than you are
and for all I know you planned that too  ##

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