America the Funeral

America the Funeral –

It’s the land of the free because the slaves never last.

They aren’t made to last. Made is the correct word, not inherent.

A melting pot is sweetened with the fruits of their labor. Some see that as its and their only purpose.

It’s because their “Hard work builds character,”

roads to/and

bridges to/and

cities for/and

businesses for/and

wealth – an escalation improperly measured.

Them, that and all other services, are called “goods”

and, thus, I suppose, unquestionably considered so. 

…but cheap labor for who exactly? 1%, 1%’s interest in nothing else, but more.


America the Funeral –

“Mind your business,” says the company.

They sure do.

Ensuring every kickback, tax break, back room deal for their eyes, their wallets only –

Campaign contracts with guaranteed signatures and cosigners ready to wear shackles and leashes. On themselves and others, just name your price.

Masterminds - Criminal? Not yet legally, but of course.


America the Funeral –

Where to go after? Even heaven is a gated community.

A choked silence lumped in your throat. For some, forcibly, but the lid, the case is closed. The sheriff turned off the mic and retreated so it’s over.

            Someone should have spoken up then.

            Even now, the pastor gives deaf eulogies, barely touching the truth, if at all.

In this way, the church and state have always been lovers.  

Yes, this did happen for a reason.

No, not for some higher purpose. Unless they were an activist.

Instead, he reminds us of the heavenly promise, God’s good guy guarantee,

but it’s our own demons and devils who forever roam this free country.


America the Funeral –

Even an aimless vector is redirected. Rescheduled with an unnatural pull.

In an infinite loop, bodies keep coming back here. The here is far and wide. The reason, a statistic, not one, but many, a population.

Speak now or forever hold your peace is mute, moot. The truth reduced to a cold, sticky, lifeless shadow left for dead. At some unknown moment, the breath is transformed into nothing, but air.  

When the ellipsis starts, it is not a pause. In this life and the next for that matter to be destroyed, not extended.

Bitter ashes to ashes, a lifetime of deserts, and dried up, crackling frontiers – any direction leads to the same unconscious eternity.

One for the returning masses, the wavering arrow leading back here.

The American flag should always be at half-mast.

America the Funeral…

This poem is about: 
My family
My community
My country
Our world
Guide that inspired this poem: 


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