In Consideration of Pasteurized, Processed Cheese Food Products and Portraits of an Aryan Jesus

This is America, Laura. The door has an eye
And a motor. It has to close. You have to
Determine which side you'll be on. Stay
With your family. Stay in this god-awful
Ghetto of mind, and fall behind. You can
Glide to your spot at the table with Mommy
And Dad, and Eddie, and Uncle Fred, and
Say grace to a Jesus, who says, “Though I
Suffered for all of you, woman, you'll suffer
More. Don't bother going to college. Get
Pregnant. A woman's a womb and that is
All.” Eat the factory food that Mommy
Has thawed: starchy and tasteless, lethal
And gross, your pizzas and wienies, washed
Through your viscera on a tide of something
Only a robot ever would say was beer, a
Foul-smelIing substance without a taste. It may
Make you stupid. You're already there, bedded
Down, poking cards in an ersatz democracy. This
Is your choice, pretty Laura. Decide. You
Can take fake. That's been the American
Way. What's almost authentic is almost
Acceptable. Everyone here almost lives
Like a king. Still, you may want to glide
Toward a seat on this jet that I will be
Taking to Conakry soon. The future is black.
The food is like food, glorious, dangerous.
Beer has a taste, and, the doors in that
Place, so unlike America, must be manually
Opened and closed.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 33 times
Written on 2012-02-02 at 01:22

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