Andy Martin’s America Letter

I’ll be reading this and more at POETS Speak Loud, McGeary’s in Albany this monday, 10/27 7pm. . . . .

Andy Martin’s America Letter

Christ! Even the Aussies
know I’m fucked up.
Lagging behind the prattle
of serious people and a
bowlegged girl. Reading
Andy Martin’s America letter
about a similar girl. Exotically nameless.
A triumph of nature. Her skin the shine
of lotto balls. Who somewhere,
in the throes of winsome,
stands plural, w/o air.

Rife w/pills and exposition,
Andy goes on to say
that long after Christ
took one for the team,
Only the Army
still guarantees jobs.

Genetically prone to tangents
and obviously buzzing on the honey-slides
we sold in college,
He’s now insisting
I’m not a truth-seeker at all,
but an investor in camouflage
and see-thru panties.

“Bite me, pal,” I snarl under
my cranky breath. But the bowlegged girl
hears me. Turns around. Stops abruptly.
Tells me to go fuck myself
then reconvenes her labored gait.

I stop to let her get
a block or two ahead
and turn my attention
back to Andy Martin’s America.

Where no-meat dreams
reflect our collective resignation.
“If flies are karmic,” he scrolls
“we’d best get used to shit.”

But he’s errant in his logic.
Every soldier’s a fugitive
when the meat’s all gone.
And the only substitute for corporate order
is the foment of the mob.


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