Saint America

We knew all the time
Even when you denied it most strenuously
That you had intestinal troubles
& then the riots came
There you were
Holy, pure, almost immaculate
But intentionally dishonest to the core
Dishonest to your young, your poor, your blacks (horn)
To all of your people yearning to be free
Your factories hummed, spewed smoke into the air
Trains ran, usually on time. The hours
Some of your workers spent were usually well paid
Your stores were stocked with unusual goods, both foreign and domestic
Your capacity for national fulfillment was unlimited
But all was not well
A black baby cried in a Delta night
In the slum-slammed streets of Harlem
Cried from the pain of missed-meal cramps
While your astronuts circled Russia, the heavens & other such places
Munching on concentrated bits of specially designed food
None of your people, Saint America, came from the sky
They came from every land on earth
Ideas from every language spoken
They came to you bringing latent hate that was allowed to develop by an articulate, reasonable folk who should have known better
The English, a civilized people, had their day
The Spanish, The French, The Arabs, Greeks, The Romans, their day
& then, Saint America, you had yours
No single country in our world deserved it less or more
That tortured, twisted spiraling from the top to wherever the bottom was
Toward the ending, speed freaks buzzed your streets
Nursing languages that only he could understand
Hopping from car to car on the perpetually Christmas tree-lit streets
Chanting Dylan's litanies
Chinese hipsters & yamulkes perched on the Pacific edges
Fishing for *Miles* following with an outdated game & bubble gum wads of raw shit
Paranoid dudes waded through fields of sly weed
Watching for the man as they harvested
It was a bad scene
Old, funky black studs aged in *aspic* and chitterling juice
With scorched lips & runny noses crouched against dimly lit street signs
Waiting, always waiting for wild wild horses to pull them away
Flower children spun around & round
Oblivious to flowers, but totally caught up in the beauty of the weed
Saint America, *dex it up*, slowed down, tuned in, turned on, loaded back, fucked up! smacked, smashed, bent, spaced out, foul to a way out extent
& then, Saint America, Nixon became your President