i think i’m going to die.
i know i’m very young
but i’ve smoked enough cigarettes to swallow the moon.
there’s blood all over me.
blood of young men.
bullet holes riddle my body
do you still love me
with all of my glory gone
with my golden flesh stripped away?
against the excellent advice of george washington
they took a scalpel to my body, cut it into slices
and the war continues
red against blue
blood seeps into the ocean
how we hate each other.
do you still love me
even though my eyes are black and blue
and my oceans and forests are flat as footprints?
do you still love me
even though i have drunk way too much
even though i always say i won’t?
when you saw me from across the sea
i know you thought i was the one
you have told me that story many times
but am i? am i the one?
am i the land of the free
with these heavy chains on my wrists
and red marks on my arms?
there is so much hate
congress and senators
and wars and wars and wars and wars
and soldiers dying
and gunfire rocking in my ribs
and people starving in the streets
and me sitting here drinking
on a tuesday night.
outside the window there are stars
it saves me to remember my smallness.
sometimes i feel so huge
i think i’ll break the world
and sink into the magma of its inner core
and burn with the fire
that my green lady holds
her copper original hidden beneath
inverted apple skin.
oh those men who found me
only loved me for my body
for the tender curves of golden wheat
but look at me now, crisscrossed
by highways, hacking up phlegm
with acne scars and blood on my teeth.
at least i have you, my good friend
at least there will always be stories
at least i will never be boring.
another round of ambrosia
let’s lose ourselves tonight
forget we were ever more than poetry.