Lost America

my America is an idea. Full of blues, jazz and a route short of a 6.


Before the junk
Before the gunk
Before the debris

Before the pain
Before the gain
Before the should-be

Settle into my bones
the tendency to run
feet trapped in limbo

Pushing pulling
Reeling in
arrested motion

artistry robbed
of before’s and after’s
The middle zone

A war
A tension
At attention

I crawl
through the myriad
of past

Pass us
the signage beckons

I begged for mercy
begged for death
breathed for life

The pause unravels

Pulled triggers
Trigger reactions
Trigger fingers


Fast forward
motion blurred
chain reaction

chain smoked
packets of cigarettes
Emptied of heart

The hardest part
was staying

prone to running
I crawled
to my death

fell off my pedestal
drenched in sweat
Swore forever

to myself
I pledge allegiance
of self

sacrifice unnecessary
Rendered moot
Shelved art

Shelled art
they say Art is a calling
a reckoning

imitation of Life.

I affected disturbance
enrolled in burdens
learned to trust

despite the fall
in spite of hurt
in spite.

Call to attention
the urge to write
Trigger fingers

Triggered Art
because Life is

and I pledge allegiance
to my country,
the great white North

My America is
loss and art and true selves


Didn’t mean to be political, but started and the words wouldn’t stop.
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