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,

nightmare accretionaries

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.


About johnsmithiiimxiii

John Smith, IIMXIII is the avatar of an award winning poet, artist, etc. who still lives in the Palouse country of the Pacific NW. He has not received much notice with his prose . . . but as his avatar, I hope that he keeps plugging along.

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