You, you, you are the golden land of …
ask me again, ask me the question with a different subtle loop, a different press on the shoulder. I think America is…
It’s the cold breeze on my ankles as I jump a fence in new mexico with my 65 year old pops. It’s scrubbing sweet tea on my skin, 5 cent coffee, free ice water, indigestion and booths big enough for 3 people. It’s the sickest repetition.
America, I think we’re finally having a conversation. A dialogue about something more than success and ambition… about fitting all the tetris pieces together. America, I think therapy might be working. You’ve doubled up, scored an extra life.
Let’s keep this going America. Eat something, drink something, buy something, eat something, drink something, buy something.
You are the reason why I feel it’s ok to hide in a bathtub, writing, crying and being as prolific as my upper mid class privilege will allow. Thanks for the car, America!
I think I love you America but I’m not sure. You carry the secrets of arches sprawling over rotting cities, forgotten town after forgotten town. Failure in America is not dutifully buried but stripped cold on display for every tourist who happens to wander down route 66. We are iconic. No, you are iconic and I’m a statistic. An american percentage, one of so many women who was (raise your hand if this applies to you) assaulted, trained to hate her body, medicated, humiliated by the justice system before the age of 16. How can I take you personally America when I’m just one of many? When everyone gets the royal treatment?
I have seen your grand canyon with the ceiling on top, black fingernails and windy growths. I have seen despair and tragedy, too much tragedy for one place.
I don’t understand, America. Why can’t you stop? Do you know what you’re known for? Texas, dangerous cities, guns, Obama, Hollywood, guns, massacre, pricey education, limited resources, lots of pollution, guns, temper, temper, temper.
America, I don’t know how to make this perfect. I can’t turn your infirmity into grace. It’s time to find your purity, your opportunity.
Oh, America! Big boned and heavy handed, you are my home. I leave but always return. I can’t turn my back on your agony… it is mine.