Blog of literary hijinks and the dudnering whirl of expatriotic vitriole.

2.24.2006

You Have Five Minutes

America,
I can feel your oversized, sweaty hands reaching out for me
They hover overhead in my dreams
reaching smugly for my neck, leaving nothing to chance

wrestling with your other images:

Service sector jobs, cutting grass, told over and over
do something, goddamnit, do it right this time,
You have five minutes

My bosses clench their cell phones furiously and shake their heads because I m late
And lost on my way to work
On a street among cordoned fields
With police on every corner under the light, whispering into their hats

America, you cannot see yourself anymore from the inside
You have resigned all responsibility
Perhaps you have given too much
You re tired and cranky
Because everyone wants a piece of you
I understand, you don t liked to be talked to like you re a child
There, there
Everything will be all right
It was just a nightmare

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