Wailing in the carriage

Strange dreams
of being American
without enough tools
to get the job done. 

The know-how
and stick-to-it-ivness
to do the work
at any damn cost 

I don’t know what made
this country great
the process, systems
and evident structure.

I don’t command
the inner optimism
the force of personality
the spunk. 

All around us
the flags of fever
wave away the scourge
of moderation. 

In every step
I fail the test
of the made tall
blood-red man. 

The tooth and claw
rip into my
catch and release
true nature. 

I own no snow chains
can ford no rivers
know nothing from
carburetor. 

My voice has no husk
and between those two ideals
of buff and slob
my body dangles. 

They say never explain
by no means complain
but I love French food
and am somewhat sorry.

Ballet, coriander
a love for Alexander
cooking and foolishness
pale pink wool.

All these years
this lie I’ve been living
so closeted
the lonely bad American.

December, 2001
 
 

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