poem 118 of a poem a day for 2012 (NaPoWriMo6)

America has no soul, only symbols

it's the people here,that got the goods

sitting at the kitchen table

not able to eat anything

except what I write

and it doesn't really matter

what I write as long as

the rivers of words are full

of blood and underpinnings

most days I write about the Goddess

and all the ways Her spirit body

conceals itself in the congeal of

elements woven to human behavior

until there is just one instance

one portal blink She reveals

She's already inside me

and I smile and turn my pen

to bullets instead

like the ones trading holes

for lifelessness in the bodies

of women and children asleep in Afghanistan

or the ones fired to chase

and stop this fear

of a young black hoodied male

to bullets instead

being just causes for judgment

of death by steel hail

that boy in Florida

I suspect was just part

of this epidemic

that's thriving everywhere else

in America too

because everywhere else

it seems in this world

America, wants it too

these bullets have been

clocking time 

with our Holy skin 

and watch hands

in the ground 

spinning slag

to get in

hundreds of years  

here in the foundries

of America

this is God's dog and pony show

didn't you know this already

we grow in the rust

of copper wired hearts

green,the thinnest oil-sheen

walking on water

for the color of money

and what's in between

the uplifted spirit

and the chains still worn

as welfare checks

for example

given to maternity

willing to go it alone sometimes

with shameful molds of bread

and the symphonies

of disconnecting being born 

into each of life's melodies

as we ghost present-abilities

as preludes to the sonnets

of laundering skin

generation after

generation, death rattles

its clever ways

to be the same begin

our souls here in America

have always been free

where all we got to do

is fluff and fold time

until we get old

while praying

we are buried

without any more

holes in our skin

EJR ©