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Super Bloom

America, like a monstrous sow

vomiting cars and appliances into a green ooze

resembling dollar bills, where is my America?

Agnostic and uninsured, I eat celery, onions,

and garlic—my Holy Trinity of survival.  I go

to the desert and celebrate death-life, picking a nosegay

for my room at the Motel 6.  You said you would always

tell the truth, Mr. President, but that was a lie, so I’m

pressing my white face to your White House door,

a kind of pig-keeper with an urge for happiness.

At the Morbidity Conference, they said we can’t know

our own strength.  They said we’re like roses sprayed

with pesticide.  They said one man in a long black car

can’t ever really empty out the fullness.



This poem is supported in part by the National Endowment for the Arts.

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