Happy belated birthday!

Note: This poem was originally penned in March of 2008 under the influence of boredom, Francis Scott Key, and the patriotism of the previous six and a half years. It is best read while listening to:

"Makes No Difference" by Richard King

I close my eyes and listen...

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?

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.

And 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.

And 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?