On July 4th, anger typhoons in me; others party with god, glory, and gilded beer.
I slam shut my eyes, mentally kicking away the cheesy flags, hating the mindless gala
of making merry death and mutilation, loathing the drunken bop with the legions dead:
carnival supplants the dark dead weight we should be touching.
Always, at moments of strength, I am tempted to buy a dozen gross
of Uncle Samuel’s damn banners and burn them daily, one-by-bloody-one,
on every courthouse lawn—Maine to California, Alaska to Florida—
as though that would matter.
Sometimes I can just turn a corner and see you, America, standing smack
in front of me—a collective dumb-fuck Baby Huey: big, damn, necrotic cartoon
of our national myth of Clorox-bleached faux-white goodness, the ‘city on a hill,’
now an malevolent mob of living in hillbilly McMansions, reeking of cum
and scat and piss and pus.
Copyright Tim Bagwell