America is the land
That without irony
And nicotine gum
At the checkout counter.
The CEO President
And the VP of Regional Sales Congress.
Your power is a Coca-Cola enjoyed
Where clean water is a dirty dream,
Where the drone crater
Laughs at the school that was never built.
O night sweats! O nocturnal emissions!
America’s air-conditioned air
Refrigerates not the tumescent dream,
The room-temperature dream, the dream
Here the orange-juice-wealth
Is a pulpy sludge that flows,
If at all, the wrong way.
Here illegals turn the orange groves
Into fields of orange ingots
Into the great vaults
Be wary of what you export
Lady Liberty’s torch,
Will not with ease re-ignite.
Denuded forests regrow, yes,
But the blasted mountaintop
Gives up its coal but once:
O burning paper!
O electric factory!
The news goes up in flames
Live-streamed ’round the world.
The machinery grinds on
According to its own logic,
Profitable crematoria at Auschwitz—
Seen from space.
Know that were the 241-year-old orchestra to
Its first phonophobic conductor,
There still may flow a music so rancid
It sickens the body politic
For as long as there is history
That the great unfinished symphony
Was finished, or nearly finished,
Like a rough marble statue
To the point that
No future Rodin, no former Donatello
Can its horrid features rectify.
Written on Tuesday, March 13, 2018