Bleeding for America

We are the great society (bound to the American way)
we fight and die for countries, insanely, and end up
with piled high bodies…like stacks of hay.
Even with the shortage of gas we invade, buy yachts,
and skyscrapers, homes on beaches in Costa Rica.

We are no longer nesters, rather, birds eating seaweed
or dope, booze, anything for a quick high.
We run our lawnmowers, dance in the rain, hang from
a trapeze, playing the wrestler games; a society in a
bubble, living like kings; evangelists stealing everything.
Presidents and Congress, murdering, while everyone
goes to the movie theaters, sit in a gaze, a trance,
as if in coffins, hibernating the winter’s away.

The darkness has not lifted yet, for Iraq; the war continues
in the back streets of Bagdad, and throughout the country’s
heated sands. The soldiers psychological profiles are piled high,
they are dying in the soil bleeding for America: yellow,
brown, black and white, with broken spirits; reporters
lying and dying, and all in bitter fatigue, so sad.

How strange it must be, to awake in a city that bleeds
and adult men, shooting at each other, night and day!
And somewhere in the sands, are groups of exhausted
soldiers digging muddy gravels. Boiling temperatures,
voices white from fright! But we still kill and fight, bleed
for America, under a flag that says: might is right…!

Bush, Bush, Bush, you will be out of office, soon, thank God,
and I voted for you, like a hungry dog, while among
those around me, whisper’s were saying, “Don’t,
he’s going to shed more blood.” During your régime,
there were no snow white blossoms ever seen, not for
so many years, only blood, blood and more blood
shed, how can you sleep, and not weep, all this blood
in the name of good. America, the last haven
for God’s people, what have we done?

Has not Vietnam, my war, taught us anything? Strange
Worlds may not wish to reach our shores, to eat our
turkeys and drink our whisky, and sing our songs. But
we cry “Remember the Alamo,” as if it is our
duty to incorporate them, the world at our hands.

Washington, the court of the Black Angels,
where sugar and cars and milk and drinking water
and dead solders, and armies are reviewed, from the
top of trees, like honey bees. War and silence, that is
the name of the game (keep it under surveillance,
behind hidden eyes, keep the people guessing,
walking in opposite directions), keep a balance
with the negro, and the same with the Mexican, or make
them bleed—steadily.

We are nothing but cows in a barn, being milked,
while being flattered with flowers thrown overhead,
and the poor soldiers die, as if they are someone’s enemy,
yet they know nothing of the countries they defend,
and such countries are really not our friends.

No rich man’s son will die today, just beyond the edge
the edge of the sands, where the ground explodes
terror and death lurk and linger, here helicopters
and boys will be left, heads blown off, opened chests,
guts laying exposed on their torsos, and those that go home,
so starts the sufferings all over again, a stringy line of
quivering animals trying to get help at the VA-hospitals.
It is all so immense, that at the end, we die for nothing.

1-4-2008 #2135