channeling your inner adolescent

(inspired by Francis Scott Key,
boredom, and a room full of geriatrics)

i close my eyes and listen...
to the vision of a banner,
spangled and splattered,
smothered and covered,
hoisted and dropped,
from the rooftop of Waffle House:

stitched together from the scraps of Sicily
and the dregs of Dublin
and the bums of the Balkans
and the crumbs of the Caucuses
and the niggers of the Niger river basin
and the ten thousand bastard Amerasians
from the hundred thousand homeless vets
whose Vietinsemination was such a success.

can you see that banner?
can you see that billboard?
the one over the streets of Baghdad:



the one bragging in Bangalore:

the one towering over Tel Aviv:

can you see?

the dawn’s early light over Bikini Atoll
with sheep lashed to the railings of destroyers,
and GI’s washing their clothes later that day,
eating gyros and laughing at Oppenheimer.

are you still there?

have I lost you Tet?
what a lovely new year and many more to come,
holidays in the sun
holidays in Cambodia
holidays in Laos.
i have a friend who was there in ‘61,
19 years old
jumping into the jungles
with plenty of advice
and a canteen full of vinegar
for the purpose of douching the wounded.

but who needs all this when we have the Rock?

and the Rock’s red glare,
staring down Stone Cold Steve Austin:

keeping us warm at night,
bringing us in from the cold.
it reminds me of my childhood
and the last icy villain
and his Red Scare.

an actor brought him in from the cold, too:

a real cowboy,
but this is a new era,
with a new almond-faced hero
(it’s okay he’s Samoan)
no miscegenation here, boss.

and the planes bursting in mid-air?

not since Lockerby;
5 million screaming Scotsmen can’t be wrong.
and 19 dead Arabs can’t be right
and 1 balding municipal servant
who had one good day in September nine years ago?

he can run for president.

but the flag is still there:

the flag is still there.

the flag is still there.

and what does it say?
alone at night, naked
and cold.
shivering from night terrors and kicking at the covers,
holding on with both hands,
trying to stretch that blanket a little further,
pulling it overhead and trying not to breathe
because Ed Jenner is nowhere around.

the land?
the land was free.
a manifest destiny quilting bee,
a landscape stitched together
with all those poxy small blankets:

three thousand miles from sea to shining sea.

our home?
how brave it is,
to leave a single tribe in all of Georgia.
no more Apalachee,
or Cherokee,
or Shawnee.
only a single tribe left in all of Georgia:

bought because
it was the cheapest
programming in town.

who wouldn’t want to own a part of this dream?