That’s The Way America

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That’s the way
America
your gleaming teeth strongly gnashed,
your face burrowed in Progress, but Progress of a certain kind—

your streets and grass damp with blood
that rolls day and night, rivulets that cry
louder than Abel’s

but your God is a deaf-mute
America
enamored of his fat, golden self,
preening for the masses that are no longer huddled

and no longer tired
America
marching town by town, street by street,
shedding their beaten flesh for the fire underneath.

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