Another photo; you at a podium
arms measured statesman-wide, neat hair,
good cheekbones, healthy, respectable
suit. The whole works better with a beer.
(I like European.) You I never met. I met
your image, saw some words emerge
from your mighty jaw. I could understand them.
They were about America and families.
Right behind you, junk. Armies of junk
stiffen your stainless steel spine, work you
to a dream. The lasting smile
that burns forever, bright as a commercial break,
worked to a dream of something anyone could want.
And sometimes I do want you.
But the bitter fuel, the kerosene glisten
of those whitest teeth, the relentless drill-tone,
on message, on target, pitched
like a dog whistle to the viscera
“We, the People” slip up on to get ours,
our piece of your action, the Barbie,
the Burger King, that bile slicks our pit
as the light of your smile radiates. Emit,
sweet beacon, emit. We are still responsive.
Changed the title today (April 4, 2011).
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