SECTION SIX
POETRY PAGE TWO
sm
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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