I Hear America Gurgling
(after Walt Whitman)
I hear America gurgling, choking on cheap Mexican beer,
The auto workers, each machine that replaced the men
grinding all
night
long,
The Home Depot guy renting out circular saws, measured by
the hour,
The night watchman downloading videos on his phone, watching
the tiny screen as
the
building huddles in its sleep,
The ticket taker at the theater telling people that their
movie is the fifth screen on the right,
restrooms
on the left
The girl at the shoe store at the mall brings out the fifth
pair from the back for the woman
with
the fungus under her toenails.
The cop in the car, the black boy out after curfew, the
accountant at home with her bored husband
and
angry children,
The undocumented mother having just given birth, not knowing
if she’s going ever to be able to
get the
piece of paper that proves her child exists.
Tall blond girls getting smashed at a kegger, and the
lecherous jackals ready to tear off those blouses
and
thonged shorts.
Each gurgling and spewing and spitting the foul taste of the
acid in the air or the lead in their water.
These days belong to the day, and the nights belong to the
strange, and
the future belongs to those with the power to buy it.
America no longer sings any strong melodious song.
The songs that America sings is only some backbeat from
ratchet speakers,
and
words no one remembers.
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