America, You’ve Given Your All but You’re Nothing

after Allen Ginsberg’s America

America is tired and goes home without her shoes that night.
Wiping off eyeliner with the back of her small hands, she figures
she is getting too old for this shit.
America: 1 a.m. and a dollar short.
America’s dress keeps slipping down from off her shoulders.
being catcalled from the cars of her would-be fathers,
feels her heart bursting in air and cannot take the breaths to calm down–
America forgot to take her Xanax today
and the bus stop closes in around her delicate frame
like the fist her hands can’t seem to make anymore.
Her soul has been slipping through her passive fingertips, limp wrist.
America keeps her bus pass crumpled in her bra
so that she can move mountains when she takes it out for show.
(America hates her big tits. America is ready to stop growing.)
America finds the bus rides to be too smelly, too cold, too much.
How pedestrian.
(America never learned how to drive.)
America likes the window seats best, it’s because
she’s been looking for a place to rest her head.
America zooms past the streetlights and thinks of angels.
America feels stuck.
hasn’t washed her hair in weeks but has eaten all of the ice cream.
America is afraid of the ghetto and closes her eyes past MLK Blvds.
She licks her lips; America left her chapstick in someone else’s jeans.
had vodka for dinner that night.
America keeps her vibrator in her backpack for emergencies
in which she will need to resuscitate herself.
America’s favorite book is whatever is the cheapest and
America misses her stop.
America is okay with this.
America closes her eyes and dreams of fire. America
has no more money for cigarettes. America
has no more PBR in her bag. America
doesn’t like to look into mirrors.
She hesitantly opens her eyes to her reflection in the bus window–
America has a hard time facing herself.
closes her eyes
and dreams
of fire.
She is the only passenger on the bus and the driver mentions that
the end is near.
America gets off wherever and throws herself at the curb.
America is lost
but she’s used to it by now.
America is sick of herself,
she closes her eyes
and dreams of fire.

4 thoughts

  1. This is fantastic. So glad to have discovered Bitchtopia. I look forward to more of your posts. I’m doing a write up about America poems. Do you mind if I link to this one?

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