Post by GDelmarRatliff on Sept 28, 2004 21:28:34 GMT -5
I—Speak America
america
who seduced me into citizenship.
i never asked for it—yet still—it registered
digits at the market that same day
i was born—i was given a number—i was free.
nothing of the sort was seen before.
it was a surprise,
a homemade american blackberry pie
popped fresh out of the oven;
now on the incubator-ledge to cool.
it was a boy
dark as a grape—brown-cotton eyed
hair depth black as licorice and inflammatory.
america
in which my early years were in blindness.
cataracts in the form of happiness
in my ears as well—deafening cataracts
installed with love—the desire for
the batter of an eye—it is attractive
just like you before i stumbled
face down in the true—the dominating stripes,
the blood shed—people died for you
and i—wonder why—for a moment i
wanted to—die for you.
of course all little boys play
toy soldiers—for a moment.
america
i grew up to shun you,
i live now—shunning you,
when i age, i will grey—shunning you,
and on a death-bed, i will die—shunning you
with all your offerings of neglectance:
the innocent babies of the famine
who cry at two o'clock in the morning,
an empty plastic bottle by their side
stain coagulated residue at the corners,
the people beneath the real stars
whose faces are touched gently by
the meteorite dust—cardboard-boxes,
benches in the night public park
full of the sidewalk guest
who arrive with no where else to go.
and in store—these are the things for
your nieces and nephews,
who make sure it will all come back
in return—coming back—words—back to you
theatrical—a boomerang of hatred
swift and sharp—severing the necks of aristocracy.
america
i have fed you a diseased spawn.
it is for the sticking of your nose
in places it is quite to big to fit,
it is for the asking of questions
you should never bother with,
it is for the people you made cry
and the sadness in their eye.
by the morning the spawn will be dried thick,
your mouth and nostrils wreak of it.
the after-smell hung in your rooftops.
it was good for me—i am ashamed,
it was true for me—i could not refrain.
the strongest form of desire creates
a poorman—a loner—a poet.
it is love—love with the middle
phalanges up to the crowd—<br>jackasses who cannot react it.
and you america are fucked speechless.
the calm in your lands are soured lies
and i have died—too many times
to die again—for you.
G Delmar Ratliff
america
who seduced me into citizenship.
i never asked for it—yet still—it registered
digits at the market that same day
i was born—i was given a number—i was free.
nothing of the sort was seen before.
it was a surprise,
a homemade american blackberry pie
popped fresh out of the oven;
now on the incubator-ledge to cool.
it was a boy
dark as a grape—brown-cotton eyed
hair depth black as licorice and inflammatory.
america
in which my early years were in blindness.
cataracts in the form of happiness
in my ears as well—deafening cataracts
installed with love—the desire for
the batter of an eye—it is attractive
just like you before i stumbled
face down in the true—the dominating stripes,
the blood shed—people died for you
and i—wonder why—for a moment i
wanted to—die for you.
of course all little boys play
toy soldiers—for a moment.
america
i grew up to shun you,
i live now—shunning you,
when i age, i will grey—shunning you,
and on a death-bed, i will die—shunning you
with all your offerings of neglectance:
the innocent babies of the famine
who cry at two o'clock in the morning,
an empty plastic bottle by their side
stain coagulated residue at the corners,
the people beneath the real stars
whose faces are touched gently by
the meteorite dust—cardboard-boxes,
benches in the night public park
full of the sidewalk guest
who arrive with no where else to go.
and in store—these are the things for
your nieces and nephews,
who make sure it will all come back
in return—coming back—words—back to you
theatrical—a boomerang of hatred
swift and sharp—severing the necks of aristocracy.
america
i have fed you a diseased spawn.
it is for the sticking of your nose
in places it is quite to big to fit,
it is for the asking of questions
you should never bother with,
it is for the people you made cry
and the sadness in their eye.
by the morning the spawn will be dried thick,
your mouth and nostrils wreak of it.
the after-smell hung in your rooftops.
it was good for me—i am ashamed,
it was true for me—i could not refrain.
the strongest form of desire creates
a poorman—a loner—a poet.
it is love—love with the middle
phalanges up to the crowd—<br>jackasses who cannot react it.
and you america are fucked speechless.
the calm in your lands are soured lies
and i have died—too many times
to die again—for you.
G Delmar Ratliff