Am I the bourgeoisie?
or maybe the proletariat,
striving for a goal of impossible height --
no wonder I'm a statistic.
You produce it, I take it. Ever the consumer.
I know how to use what you give me.

A gun is a rope is a cotton shirt is a
pack of cigarettes is a bottle of
shampoo is a box of razors.

They all sit in my shower, beside my bed,
in my closet -- mocking me.

Where's your warning label?
Surgeon general to the rescue. Sae me
from my toxic thoughts. My carcinogenic
visions. My malignant motivation.

Red blood, white skin, and blue lips.

I will die for the cause...
if Uncle Sam will only stamp his
approval on this one last thing:

A tattoo on my pale breast,
"made and destroyed in the U.S.A."

Paint a portrait of patriotism.
I promise --
this lifeless model will lie still.

04/16/2003

Posted on 03/13/2007
Copyright © 2024 Meghan Helmich