Wednesday, November 3, 2010

Two poems by Lisa McAllister

Hey, America

Hey, America, you’re fucked!
Yeah, you. I’m talking to you,
The giant, corpulent, gas-guzzling mouth breather:
Or can’t you hear me?
Have your ipod buds fused to your ears,
Rendering you deaf and mute?
Wake up!
You’re the giant, safely counting your golden eggs,
Ignorant to the fact that Jack is climbing the stalk.
You’re Sleeping Beauty long before the kiss.
You’re the Roman Republic, on March 14th.
You’re Goldilocks, but them bears on are the way!
You’ve bent over and let OPEC shove it up your ass
And now you’re fucked.
You had a good run.
You attack um redskin Indians real good.
You made some kick ass cars,
Spewing smoke and metal shavings out over Detroit
But now they’re obsolete and so are you.
Your children are stupid, stupefied,
You’ve frightened them with pedophile priests
Dumbed them down with cheat code video games
You’ve got them right where you want them, don’t you, America
You sick fuck?!
You’ve gorged yourself on serial murders and reality shows
You’ve swallowed celebrity whole and danced in a pair of Jimmy Choos
But guess what?
John Lennon isn’t coming to save your ass this time.
This time you’ve gone too far!
Your pockets are bulging, but your people are poor and dying
Hurricane hallways awash in human tears and feces and you turned away--
America, your hands are so dirty.
You’ve been raped by religion,
Covered Lady Justice in shame
You’ve had your mouth washed out with soap by a vindictive Baptist
Oh, America.
What will become of you?
Is there no one that will help you save yourself?
You’ve alienated your aliens,
The world turns a blind eye,
The world turns,
But you America, have stopped.
No more gas to keep the Hummer humming.
No more oil to keep stealing.
No more steel
No more wheat
No more methamphetamine
No more America.
Is that what you want?
I’m here to tell you America,
You’re fucked.


I’m not like you (and don’t think I haven’t noticed)

I see the shadow of the heron flying just above my car
On the way to the mall
And the full moon that lurks beyond the trees
On my darkened commute to busywork
I hear the children in park squeal and call
The baseball bat when it connects
The baby in its car seat left wailing in parking lot
And even the silent drench of rain when it falls
Soundless and begins to drip from porch roof
And under eaves
Fills the flower cups and spills over to flood the sidewalk.
I smell the taste of October apples farmers market
Along the road and cheddar cheese
And know what blue is—
Sky water eyes and his jeans drying in the sun
California beach
And the salt on my lips
Reminds me that I’m not like you
So glad I’m not like you
With huge sunglass hiding place
And minivan juice boxes
With broken heart and soul-less bathtub
And all the things your hands forgot
With abandoned eggs
And washed-out uterus
Eyeliner shovel and vampire’s kiss
Freezer packed full of protein
Suicide garage and shelves of turpentine
I may not be perfect
I may be totally fucked
But nobody can say that I’m like you.

Author bio:

Lisa McAllister has been writing poetry and short fiction for more than 20 years. She was recently awarded 1st place in both the 2010 Kent County Dyer Ives Poetry Competition and the 2010 "On the Town/Festival of the Arts" Literary Awards. She has been published in "Blue Collar Review," Women," "Gutter Eloquence," and "," among others. Lisa lives in Grand Rapids, MI where she is a wife, mother of 2, and a reluctant health insurance worker.

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