America, the United States thereof

I

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.

 

II

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.

 

III

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

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