Of Thee I Sing

Tizuvthee, Old Soapy, land where Thoreau sat and Whitman
walked, despised of all nations, Strontium, alone.

Tizuvthee.

Fucked
L.A. starlet of tiny dream untrue even to your
tiny dream intolerable up-tight dirty noise New
York, rusty muscle Chicago, hopeless Cleveland
Akron Visalia alcoholic San Francisco suicide

Tizuvthee, I sing.

—Lew Welch

In this, this here nation, the United States nation, it is Vitally Important that, if you hear in your head little nonexistent voices, and you know your brain is being bombarded by Imagemicrowaves beamed by random people you encountered on a plane, and you shoot out people’s tires, and you also fire rounds through the ceiling, and you occasionally conceive a need to destroy nightclub furniture, and you jack-off 18 hours a day pretending you’re a serial killer for the United States armed forces in Call To Duty, and you nurse unexplained grievances against all and sundry, and you carry a gun in your waistband at all times because you know people want to steal your shit, and your friends all say they will remember you best serving as a full-time human funnel for Heineken beer . . . that you be showered with permits to carry firearms, and be gifted with buttloads of “secret” clearances into secure government facilities.

Of thee I sing.
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