A love letter of sorts (with no apologies to Ginsberg)
I am writing you, much like Roderick
because we used to be friends in my youth
and I have this sense of collapse
bearing down on me.
I am not sure what has happened
to us America.
I used to have faith,
but I am not so good at that
and I am not sure what to make of you
I thought we had something special
I thought you had made me a promise
I thought we had dreamed of a future together
bright and shining
happy and complete
but the fissure is growing daily.
Have we mistakenly buried something
What is this sickness America
that I see licking the marrow
of your frame?
It leaves a sticky residue of apathy
and a bad taste on my lips.
America no one ever kisses anymore,
we just have mobiles chirping
and truncated conversations
using things that I suppose
are supposed to be words,
but I wish you could still speak to people
America I am not sure where we are headed
is our future paved in divorce papers
laid by the disaffected youth
of broken homes.
Will they break their backs to
mark a disjointed trail?
Who will skip down such a walk?
America what happened to the picket fence you promised me?
I do not smoke pot every chance I get
and I have never been a communist
and I am not ashamed of it.
I thought I was playing by the rules America,
I thought I was doing what you expected of me.
I do not think you can accuse me of being a selfish lover.
Do we need to write some songs?
Have a few marches?
How many futures will we burn down
before we can start the reconstruction America.
Are you cheating on me, America? Do you have
some third world worker on the side?
America if you do not want me anymore,
just say so,
because this struggle is killing me.
America, I am still clinging desperately
on to the hope of us
like my two year old daughter
to her favorite blanket,
but I am not getting much comfort these days.
The warmth between us is dissipating quickly.
Whose carcass is going to keep the other warm?
America, am I the hollow man
the stuffed man
head full of straw?
America, listen, I am sure
we can make it work.
Love is a choice after all,
an act of effort wrapped in
desire, and I know I want this
America. I do not think I am
quite ready to give up yet, but
I need to hear from you soon.
Also appears in:
need editor approval to submit