American Literalism

                              i. Red

Their logic’s still a fallacy,
               not yet become a faculty—
          it’s what gets in their way, thoughts formed
               while burning calories; deaf heads
          of meat flesh imitates, seeking

          porn’s glowing embrace as kids do
               blankets—warmth resembling parents’
          to take from misery what’s taped,
               as pleasure annihilates fate
          before it can turn digital

          bodies videos age—pain seized
               as pressure cooks what they mistake
          for a piece of history made
               just for—and by and through—them; saints
          swallowing what’s served to them: lies

          filling mouths widened by the size
               of their tyrant’s unenlightened
          ideology these silent
               idiots service blindly—fools
          obliging wholly the half-truths

          “opportunity” promises;
               anything plausible to those
          bred to believe their “wildest dreams”
               possible, but success is not
          probable for such lost people

                              ii. White

who attribute its appearance
               to “luck,” and accomplishment to
          “miracles”—those lazy fucks who
               deny themselves freedom, seeking
          to biblify their self-imposed

          suffering; amplifying it
               by tearing out their own black eyes,
          trading with their dark government
               enlightenment for a false sense
          of entitlement—offering

          to ceaseless fire fattened thighs spread
               with napalm desire, fighting for
          oil in sweltering lands where hands
               don’t have enough middle fingers;
          where palms shake as they hold the sky,

          folding prayers like bluffing card-sharps
               as great bombs fall from space face-first,
          down onto hallowed ground their noose
               champions as a time and place
          of “rebirth,” this waste of effort—

          this display of “courage” lacking
               heart—destroying humanity
          and earth in a single breath; souls
               scattered dust-among-dust, taking
          lives as they sacrifice any

                              iii. Blue

and all self-knowledge in the sight
               of no gods other than themselves,
          air-lifting high onto the hot
               horizon—close, then closer, to
          heaven, onto the tar-covered

          altar of an almighty and
               ever-present dollar they trust—
          what signs of the end-times they lust
               after; ignorance the cause of,
          and solution for, their bliss and

          unrepentant recessions—fists
               wiping from their lips ketchup, come,
          piss, and blood The News says must be
               washed off, if they are to impress
          audiences unaccustomed

          to the “privilege” of being
               taken hostage—and then crushed—by
          the “greatest nation;” mistaking
               its own creations as hostile,
          whining imperatives as it

          finds in unpolished rhetoric
               that gem that is their holiest
          relic—nothing more sacred to
               a village of idiots than
          American literalism.