Sweep to the center of the room,

My brain, the state I live in,

All the junk; collect it in a pile,

And sweep it out the front door.


Little wrappers come undone,

But there hasn't been a sweet here in many years.

How I miss the taste of freedom,

So I throw it all away,


To make room, not for anything in particular,

But for, maybe, the fleeting hope,

That cleaning up will make me feel okay.

That by some miracle, the junk has always been the problem.


Sweep it into a tray and throw it out the window,

Dispose of sordid thoughts and memories,

Or vicious hands and spiteful grinning,

Throw it all away!


Then, I'll have all this space inside my head,

Like an empty attic to escape to.

Lobotomize my insincerities and box them up,

So I'll have room to breathe.


The smell of decay will eventually subside, and

In its wake, I'll adorn my newfound space,

With wreaths of thoughtless dreaming,

I'll hide my old body underneath the floor.


What will I do all day? Why I'll lie,

In the middle of it all, admiring the freshly painted walls.

Lifelessly obscene, free of all clutter and distraction.

I'll cry and miss my mess, but I'll pretend I don't,


I'll become someone better; worthy of love,

Then maybe I can get something done,

Instead of being such a slob. I'll forget the me,

I buried under boards, and build a pleasant atomic family.


I'll put up fences and clip my yard.

I'll barbeque and find some way to force myself,

To believe this is happiness, a temporal concept,

Whose only solution was to kill who I could have been.


I'll go to my job, 9:00 to 5:00,

And my husband, the plastic, white American,

Well, he'll be a mannequin, but he has holes in all the right places,

So who am I to complain?


Our kids are made of rubber, they’ll kick a ball around,

Say the pledge, and when their father hits them,

Be as silent as a magazine, crashing through the plaster,

Of our tiny beige existence.


And someday I’ll realize that there was never happiness,

As I look down at my plastic everything, so

Conveniently shrink-wrapped to prevent mess,

And long to clutter up my life once more.


Armatures and indignation takes flight in all directions,

As I disassemble my nuclear bundles of joyless animatronic efficiency,

As I sit, basking in the carnage, pausing to look at the once

Immaculate floor, now covered in mechanical waste,


I take one step back, and peer into yesterday.

Brush my hair and with the most serious tone of desperation,

Ask the silence built around me,

“What can I do about all this mess?”



This poem is about: 
My country


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