A love letter of sorts (with no apologies to Ginsberg)

a poem

Dear America,

I am writing you, much like Roderick

because we used to be friends in my youth

and I have this sense of collapse

bearing down on me.

 

I am not sure what has happened

to us America.

I used to have faith,

but I am not so good at that 

these days,

and I am not sure what to make of you 

anymore.

 

I thought we had something special

I thought you had made me a promise

America

I thought we had dreamed of a future together

bright and shining

happy and complete

 

but the fissure is growing daily.

Have we mistakeningly burried something

between us?

 

What is this sickness America

that I see licking the marrow 

of your frame?

It leaves a sticky residue of apathy

and a bad taste on my lips.

 

America no one ever kisses anymore,

we just have mobiles chirping

and truncated conversations 

using things that I suppose

are supposed to be words,

but I wish you could still speak to people

America.

 

America I am not sure where we are headed

is our future paved in divorce papers

laid by the diseffected youth

of broken homes.

Will they break their backs to 

mark a disjointed trail?

Who will skip down such a walk?

 

America what happened to the picket fense you promised me?

 

America, 

I do not smoke pot every chance I get

and I have never been a communist

and I am not ashamed of it.

I thought I was playing by the rules America, 

I thought I was doing what you expected of me. 

I do not think you can accuse me of being a selfish lover.

 

Do we need to write some songs?

Have a few marches?

How many futures will we burn down

before we can start the reconstruction America.

 

Are you cheating on me, America? Do you have

some third world worker on the side?

 

America if you do not want me anymore, 

just say so,

because this struggle is killing me. 

 

America, I am still clinging desperatly 

on to the hope of us

like my two year old daughter

to her favortie blanket,

but I am not getting much comfort these days.

 

The warmth between us is disapating quickly.

Whose carcus is going to keep the other warm? 

 

America, am I the hollow man

the stuffed man

head full of straw?

 

America, listen, I am sure

we can make it work. 

Love is a choice after all, 

and act of effort wrapped in 

desire, and I know I want this 

America. I do not think I am 

quite ready to give up yet, but 

America

 

I need to hear from you soon.