American Yarnprose>I'm Sorry I'll Buy You A Snack Shop

I'm Sorry I'll Buy You A Snack Shop

You are my nation. Tall, soft, stupid and cheap...

"I pledge alienation to the fag, of the United Snakes of non-existent America,"
a passport to freedom,"oh say can you see," the freedoms we call free. A blind spot to those who seek an answer to make amends with their own personal god.

God is love, the voice of disarray. How do you come to terms with living in America today? An America filled with troubles..."

"And to the Republicans for whom it stands..."

"By the dawn's early light..."

The power-brokers mapping out merger deals for Y2K. More moms and pops swallowed up day after day. One nation under the almighty dollar, making love to material wealth, oblivious to the theory regarding love and art. Profiteering love while ruining faith, thereby creating stability. A sense of responsibility. We've come this far, stichomythia…so much empty banter.

Living thy American dream. The multicultural image of voices never heard. The hatred of the races, the confusion of places, coming apart at the seams. The instant corporateness of modesty; John Q. Public's disregard for honesty. Television, Internet, masturbating our vows; do you take this electric beam to have and to hold, conformity unrolled, in the master plan of eternity without blinking? No one can tell me without stumbling where the Great War unfurls.

Just send troops and lots of them. Everything is bleeding. The master says everything is fine. The mass destruction of population. Certification of swirling holocausts. Slave mongers in ancient times, lives bedraggled. How many worlds can we fell with a single stroke? How do we sleep so well?

1999, the end of the century, 99 years of blood on its hands and can't wring itself dry; I'm still livin' my dreams in the rush-rush shadow of hypocrisy. I pray to God and they send more cops to halt the divine erection. Between God and the world, who fights the truth but doesn't realize we are not pawns? Each of us will be tested. Art thou not in heaven or hell? Quit fighting the truth before it's too late. We must take on the responsibility of living by searching for the truth. Such is the way of life. Don't play God for a fool. Innocents will suffer, sure and behold, but try telling that sacrifice story to God!

This is America, take it as it is; this is her left breast's name this is her right (breast). Everyone wants to be like Mike. Everyone could care less about the president or the golden eternity sanctity of love. America has become the quintessential super bowl of madness, swelling like burgeoning behinds, inoperative brains, slacker tendencies, unholy gaping mouths failing to reach out to the ones they love.

In order to get America into other corridors, she has to shut the door on the old one first.But as in truth, it becomes a scare. The love of one another, just feeding off of fear. What if for one fleeting thought, Baby America fell out of her egg, hit her fragile head and felt the stinging of her pronounced freedom? It would be like Truman Capote who called Jack Kerouac a typist while his own cigarette fingers squeezed himself dry like a Kool-Aid juicebox into the American mind.

God helps the sick and the dying. Punishes the sinners who deny the mere fact of love. Sister-sister, brother-brother, Sodom ate Gomorrah; Jesus danced the Hora before they bled him dry and stuck him in a cave and escaped the darkness into freedom…so the Bible tells us so. But just as the world goes 'round, Venus sat on a toilet seat without a sound, pondering "Why would anyone have sex with a clown?"

We get sicker quicker; the vast coolness of disease becomes thicker. Monkey virus traced to polio and AIDS (originated as early as 1930 in Africa: Chicago Tribune Feb. 2000). Fraught with fear, the elitists blame it all on the immigrants and the queers.

"I pledge alienation to the fag of the United Snakes of non-existent America..."

The victims on a sinking ship; boys in bed with girls barely of age, the advent of cancer, TB, OJ, JFK and road rage.

"Barney makes love to Carney on cable, while Rosie dresses up in mink and sable, "Ah1-ah2-ah3-ah4, Rush-Rush-Rush-RushThe transistor king of all media out the door. Fright and happiness share a good laugh. Aborted fetuses become angels of mercy. A century of love disposed in my lean American years.

A century of bewilderment raining down, brown and white; I start to see visions in a foggy sense. Little voices that tell me to get lost inside myselfI cry 100 tears for death, 100 fears for breath100 years will come and go. Feels like fifty have already passed and raked me over the coals; I got a million and two different souls all trying to get me to the next place in the sky but I can never get there, 'coz I'm always stuck at square one!

Feeling sorry for myself doesn't always work, neither does pity. And charity lives in an Indiana church among the hippies, students and saints. Comes back to haunt me six months out of the year. So I say unto thee, old America; everyone has a ghost in their past, a wretched soul, a skeleton they need to hide, but like an old Betty Boop cartoon mine goes dancing at the Mosquito Inn to escape from fear

"By the dawn's early light, what so proudly we hail, at the twilight's last gleaming, whose broad stripes and bright stars..."

The critics claim society's gone to hell in a hack, but nobody seems to have a plan to bring it all back.

"My country 'tis a thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing..."

From the lips of a woman standing in the snow. The stark terror of old age. The java huts on every city block. Prunespit and the whiskey's gone sour

"I love you," she says, so the story goes. Our children souvenirs of wasted passiveness. A black rose wilts in the orifice. The shoes of the fisherman fry upon the griddle. If wishes were fishes I would know the words that you seek; resolute prodigal degenerate thought.

Jack Kerouac stands in the middle of the room champagne-eyed and drunk (Was he ever sober?), looking up to his mother, the gem of the ocean, savior eyes. Ebbing light over the cloudless eternal.

"This land is your land; this land is my land from the Californias to the New York Islands from the Redwood Forest, to the Gulf Stream Waters..."

Wrath of accidents, crazy as it seems, America still crawls on her hands and knees past the taxi terrorists, The big city bosses making deals in the backrooms. The homeless selling their babies for a bite to eat. We give thanks for the wrong reasons; spending money on selfish people during the Christmas seasons, when all they do, is throw avocados back at you and gripe for the things they really wanted.

How humanless we've become, everything is bleeding. My hairline receding in the mid of my years; I died sometime ago and became alien.

What is wrong with me?

"My country 'tis a thee, sweet land of liberty of thee I sing, land where my fathers died, land of the pilgrim's pride, from every mountainside..."

Here's to the state of 1999...

Keep on truckin' baby, keep on truckin' baby...

In order to get your life into other corridors, you have to shut the door on the old one first. I died sometime ago and became myself...

It's the end of the century as we know it and what do you have to show for it?

I died sometime ago and became America...

"God bless America, land that I love, stand beside her and guide her, through the night with the light from above..."

"My country 'tis a thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing..."

"To the Republicans for which it stands..."

"One nation under god split open like a pea pod, testing by some scientist to see if we as a nation can swallow it whole..."

"O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave…."

Play ball!