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Awards: 3 14/18

A love letter of sorts (with no apologies to Ginsberg)

Oct 5, 2011 • 3 comments • 906 views


Dear America,

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

these days,

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

between us?


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:

A Writer's Touch

The Poetic

slightly irregular

Well said, Andrew! I love the metaphor.
10.05.11 •
Holy toledo, Andrew. This is strong stuff. Thank you. Thank you so much.
01.25.12 •
Thank you for your kind words.
01.26.12 •
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