America, I’ve given you all and now I’m nothing.
America, sixty thousand IOU’s. November 19, 2008.
I can’t stand my own mind.
America, when will we end the human war?
I’m sick of you jacking off to warmongering videos on YouTube.
I don’t feel good don’t bother me.
I won’t rewrite this poem till I’m in my right mind.
America, when will you be a Bodhisattva?
When will you take off your clothes?
When will you feed the hungry?
When will you be worthy of your million dead poets?
America, why are your libraries full of empty chairs?
America, when will you send your meds to Africa?
I’m sick of your insane demands.
When can I go on eBay and buy what I need with my good looks?
America, after all it is you and I who are perfect – not the next world.
Your machinery is too much for me.
You made me want to be a saint.
There must be some other way to settle this argument.
Your starving, hysterical, naked poets are dead of bloody cirrhosis.
Are you being sinister? Or is this some form of practical joke?
I’m trying to come to a point.
I refuse to give up my obsession.
America, stop pushing I know what I’m doing.
America, the plum blossoms are falling.
I haven’t watched the news for months,
Everyday the old yell “terrorists!”
while the young kill each other.
America, I feel sentimental about the nine-to-five workers.
They cry every night wondering if life should be so pointless.
I stare at the moon, blue and poignant.
Everything is made from corn.
America, I used to be a Sunday school teacher and I’m very sorry.
Now I repent with the green, green tea every chance I get.
When I go to Chinatown I eat hot noodle soup and walk down the K-alley to the city light.
My mind is made up there’s going to be trouble.
You should have seen me reading Tolstoy.
My parents think I’m perfectly crazy; and I won’t say the Lord’s Prayer anymore.
I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.
America, I still haven’t told you what you did to Little Robert after he came over from Iraq.
Hey, I’m addressing you!
Are you going to let our emotional life be run by easyspeak Armani boys?
I’m obsessed by the tube.
I watch it when I don’t want to be human.
It stares back like a mirror image of my self.
I even take it to go on my iPhone in the morning.
It’s always telling me about patriotism.
Politicians are serious. Reverends are serious. Everybody’s serious but me.
Everybody is talking about terrorism.
It occurs to me that I am America.
I am talking to myself again.
Asia is rising against me.
I haven’t got a Chinaman’s chance.
I’d better consider my national resources.
My national resources consist of two bags of green tea, millions of mis-educated emo kids,
an unpublishable private literature that goes 1 gigabytes an hour and twentyfivethousand nursing homes.
I say nothing about my prisons nor the 46 millions of uninsured,
who go to chiropractor for medical problems
acupuncturist for chiropractic problems,
and emergency room for pain pills.
I have abolished the orphanages of India, Haiti is the next to go.
My ambition is to be the President despite the fact that my eyes are slanty.
America, you are a free country. Aren’t you?
America, how can I write a holy litany in your silly mood?
I will continue like MLK.
My lines are as vivid as his dreams.
America, I will short all my verses against your burning stocks.
America, your CEOs jump from scrapers.
America, free Llasa; free Tibet
America, save the Invisible Children
America, creativity and the blue sky must not die.
America, I am the Guantanamo animals.
America, when I was thirteen, my family moved to New York.
I only knew three words of English, “Yes”, “No”, and “Thank you.”
Children can be mean.
They spat at me for being a ching-chang-chong.
Still the sun shone brightly then and the fog wasn’t as thick
You have no idea what a good thing blowjob was back in 1993.
Your president smoked cigars instead of coke.
Mother Teresa was still alive.
Everybody must have been a terrorist.
America, you don’t really want to go to war.
America, it’s them bad Terrorists.
Them Terrorists them Terrorists and them Muslims. And them Terrorists.
The Islam wants to eat us alive. The Islam is power mad.
Inshallah wants to take our children from our Jesus H. Christ.
China wants to grab Africa. Her needs oil reserves.
Her wants our auto plants in Detroit. Him big bureaucracy running our fillingstations.
That no good. Ugh. Him makes wetbacks learn Ingles and Mandarin.
Him with two billion little slanty eyes like mine.
Her make us work in Wal-Mart twenty-four hours a day. Halp!
America, this is quite serious.
America, this is the impression I get from the TV.
America, is this correct?
I’d better get right down to the job.
It’s true I don’t want to join the Army or replace desperate someone’s desperate job
I’m unpunctual and narcoleptic anyway.
America, I’m sleeping hungry on the bare floor tonight.
– Credits to Allen Ginsberg
This is a tribute to Allen Ginsberg. He addressed America regarding the anti-communism hysteria in a sarcastic yet non-condescending undertone. I have been contemplating this poem for a while now. I draw a parallel of our era.