America, like a monstrous sow
vomiting cars and appliances into a green ooze
resembling dollar bills, where is my America?
Agnostic and uninsured, I eat celery, onions,
and garlic—my Holy Trinity of survival. I go
to the desert and celebrate death-life, picking a nosegay
for my room at the Motel 6. You said you would always
tell the truth, Mr. President, but that was a lie, so I’m
pressing my white face to your White House door,
a kind of pig-keeper with an urge for happiness.
At the Morbidity Conference, they said we can’t know
our own strength. They said we’re like roses sprayed
with pesticide. They said one man in a long black car
can’t ever really empty out the fullness.
This poem is supported in part by the National Endowment for the Arts.
