the united states of discontent

by Linda M. Crate

blackened hands of withered roots
call out to me as if I were their lover —
I bat away the arms of my fatherland,
bury my head away from my motherland;
there is so much I must know and do,
I don’t have time to ponder the consequence —
all I know is there’s so much to do, and
so little time to get it all done; it reverberates
around my mind in minute pinpricks that
stick their needles in my skull like mad
scientists injecting me with unknown drugs —

it is so cold here in this pool of perpetual
limbo, my limbs cannot work against the arms
of a machine that tether me to the earth, but
all I want to do is take these broken wings
of mine and fly again; first the talons need to
regrow, and the beak take it’s form upon my
face if anyone is to take me seriously, and
then I will wing my way against the insanity
and injustices of the world, I cannot be held
accountable for the actions of anyone else,
but I do know I crave freedom of gilded cages —

that’s exactly what this country is, sucking
us into it’s golden ribs; it tries to distract us
from the fact that it’s eroding away at our
hearts and our minds and our morals, it wants
us to believe that everything is okay; really
it’s all cocooning out of control, caterpillars
of greed and corruption line our streets, money
roots it’s way into the hearts of the pure stains
them impure, the tragedy is that no one notices
or they feign oblivion to ignore the problem,
having your head in the sand won’t solve this.