In America rearview mirrors are blooming
with evergreen Christmas tree air fresheners,
a little bit of forest that people
who live on the freeway many never
see. If they want to,
they had better hurry.
There aren’t many left. By the time
they leave the arteries, veins, capillaries
of the nation
the patient will have
died from an infection of the blood.
Fuzzy dice are for adventurers
who dream of hard, black demons,
of fading gamblers. In their despair
they have come to realize that an invisible
hand just as carelessly jerks around
their private parts.
Tassels for the smart ones,
graduation trophies for always doing
what the elite in America have done
for two hundred years to get on top,
forgetting the feelings of the body
being fucked beneath.
Badges hanging in the windshield
for all the on coming traffic to see.
Children are so proud of their first dump
in the toilet, and they are so ashamed
when they do it in their bath.
first published in Living With a Stranger: self portrait, 1993.