to my dear queer uncle

Your nothingness has resulted in this anger with America
and I don’t even have two dollars and twenty-seven cents,
these fifty years
and some months later.

It is a privilege not to stand this mind. If I did
I might be obligated to rationalize it all.
They haven’t ended the human war.
It rages on. Inside of us. It rages on.
It has been ingested,
this rotten culture. Swallowed so wholly
that it can’t be digested
but sits in stomachs,
decomposing, breeding
this disease of violence.

I know you had hope that
by the time I wrote this poem
I’d have nicer things to say.

I’m so sorry to disappoint you.
I am disappointed too.

They fucked themselves
and liked it. It is a fetish now,
this atomic fucking, lubricated with white
phosphorus and oil. It rages on.
If I waited till I were in the right mind
I’d never write another poem again.

America disturbs my mind.

The speed of the web races against
my better intentions. I can’t
keep up with its demands.
They have added fifty new channels
that sell tits and anti-depressants–they haven’t
figured out that we have our own, these
that hang beautifully and write the
cures of mind sickness inside of poems.

I can’t find any books that don’t cry
like babies, begging for balance.
I asked again about the eggs,
she sent factories instead,
the eggs are now needed here.

There are just a few of us left,
raising contrary thought.
She still isn’t worthy.
We all look through the grave now,
but it doesn’t do any good
we are just waiting to be covered.

I can go to the supermarket, use money I don’t have
to buy pharmaceuticals, film, a latte, dvd’s,
apples, hormonal meat, and the
promise that someday this convenience
will destroy perfection quietly.

I have read your argument
at least a hundred times. It coats
my rib cage, cushions my heart.
It is sinister.
You saw it coming.
They weren’t joking.
I have inherited this
magnanimous misery
and I am holding you accountable.

I took your advice and gave up
the fucking television. The murder still
creeps in. They make us afraid of each other
afraid of the towel heads, afraid of uppity
negroes, afraid of the brown workers
afraid of the fags, and dikes
and all I can really manage to fear
is my own White skin!
This fear goes against my obsession!

I have very little to feel
sentimental about these days.
Lenin, love, Lennon, lamenting over
revolution has all been lost
to T-shirts and ripped off vintage.
Your contra-culture has popped into
the vomit of Zen and I am troubled
trying to finger through it for a chunk
of hope and true intention.

I am an anarchist.
I’m not sorry.

Your thought drove me to it.

I consider my mysticism and say a prayer
to Marx. He really listens.

I read Time Magazine this week.
It told me of the seriousness of science.
We’re falling behind you know.
It doesn’t matter, she doesn’t
really care about science anyway.
Science would ruin her intentions.
Real science is too honest for her
whoreish behavior.

You are America and you’re talking to me.

The Chinese are growing.
We are supposed to be afraid of them too.

I work in your flowerpots,
preparing children for prison,
so they think. I choose instead
to fill their heads
with the idealism if this love.
I pretend to send
them to concrete graves.

My literature is catching up to your speed.
Someday, I will let you read
it all. My ambition is to destroy it
in a bal of fire that will send smoke into your

You should have been president
my dear queer uncle.

Henry sent his factories to India, Mexico, Guatemala.
It is impossible to live with conscience;
it is a crime that we are denied that choice.
I can’t even sell poems here anymore.
Soon we won’t make anything but debt.

They say its for the best. Her wants to
stay competitive. Her must kill Islam. Her really
does want to go to war. Her must preserve
freedom and democracy. Her make Indians learn
kill Arabs. We must fear the Mid East, Hugo, Fidel,
China, anti-patriots, weeping mothers.
They want to destroy our individualism after all!

I go to Anarchist Cell meetings.
They don’t even know
what garbanzos are anymore.

I am waiting for angelicism,

I have my nickels ready.

When I was seven
momma read me
your holy litany.
It was the only sincere and angelic thing
I knew.

This remains true.

It was your
queer shoulder that I leaned on.


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