America is
America is, Arizona cowboys in nut huggers.
Trying to ride freedom on the back of a bull who didn’t even do shit and much would prefer to be riding some ass himself.
Cowboys trying to ride poverty back into the roach infested trailer it came from.
Poverty smelling of Miller Lite and his mommas blood.
Poverty lookin like his little sister’s daddy who said he could call him daddy too since his was long gone, but to shut the fuck up when he’s watchin the game.
Cowboys displayin “these colors never run” stickers on the back of Ford F-150’s as Lil’ Wayne blasts from Bose speakers.
“Numba 1 stunna! Wha wha wha wha wha……”
America is, California vegetarians.
A self-righteous prick vegetarians who ask you “how you would like it if someone plugged your mother up to a milking machine?”
I wouldn’t like that at all America, but my momma is a milk machine,
as I am, but we don’t need to be plugged up an shit.
We are powered by the sun and luv.
America, this vegetarian forgot that his seed swam via kangaroo protiens Granpa Ugg shot in the furry lil ass.
America is, big tittied blonde waitresses with hearts of gold and red Camaros.
America she moonlights at a hole-in the wall playing “I’m in luv wit a stripper”
She rockin’ she rollin’ she sliding that pole an….
America, she talks to balding men as if they have something more interesting to say than “can I buy you another drink?”.
As she gives $30 lap dances, the old mens boners remind her of her little town outside Salt Lake.
Remind her of the procession of brothers whispering “You better not tell daddy”
daddy who whispers “you better not tell ya momma now”
momma who sighs and says “you better tell God”
America is, niggas on corners trying to swim to Africa in bottle of Boones Strawberry Hill and sour pickle juice.
Niggas trying to drown out hateful voices with headphones made of pig lips, dimes and Johnny Taylor Records.
Voices that tell him lies. That in order to be a man he betta get his respect.
That in order to get respect he needs the money and the power.
That in order to get the money and the power he might have to hurt a bitch.
America is, soccer moms blaming 8 year olds for wide hips and low libidos.
Suffering in the doldrum of 3 square meals a day and forgotten abortions.
Writing letters to the FCC.
Publicly declaring the sanctity of daytime TV screens, and the filth of black women’s breasts.
Secretly taking strip-aerobics and Xanax.
Just havin a lil fun with the girls, pretending their Sarah Jessica Parker or Eva Longoria
And fucking the plumber.
America is, boulevard gas stations.
America when will I grab the gasoline handle without shame
When will I grab the handle and not think of boogers and nut juice on the underside sliding underneath my nail beds and into my blood stream.
When will I be passed out in the passenger seat at 5:37am
Not thinking of 50 cent sunflower seeds, 99 cent blunts and 3.09 a gallon. 3.09 a gallon? Three-0-fuckin nine.
Yeah America this pumping station pumps me of the little freedom I had to roam city streets, aiming my mind at the truth like Annie Oakley on crank on the corner of Esplanade and Claiborne.
America is, Black Puerto Rican girls who know they the shit.
Shouting “Comete mi cricka” at playas and pimps.
Showering Miami hustlers with besos and punta.
Standing in South Beach porticos lighting and cutting the tips off Cubans while balancing on perfectly manicured feet and bikini tops.
Wanting to be loved.
Wanting pride but only seeing the backs of their coifs and their brown asses on BET.
America is, me last year.
Yeah America is a gay black chick too.
Full of lies, full of shame, full of shit.
Full on the illusion that she’s free in 360 months plus 12 months no interest.
Home ownership and college degrees.
Certainly not a slave.
Free from monikor of welfare momma as I kneel before you America.
At your breast suckin bills and coins in a feverish flow.
Needing to survive. Wanting to be somebody.
Believing, it just ain’t living without cruise control and ice cold A/C.
Free from the shuck and jive of a niggas life.
Yes, America, “of thee I sing.”
That black chick died of thirst in 12 ft of water.
She died floating in the bloated belly of a woman who looked just like my momma stretched out on an overpass.
Died waiting for the illusion to begin again like Sarah Vaughn on pause “someone to whaaaaaaaa…..” over me.
She died wanting you. Loving you.
Vowing never to trust in you again.
America is.
