Americans constipated across state-lines,
Red-eyed men with dog-tags and paper roofs,
Men missing teeth, with limestone bunions,
Women and tangled spawns bent under the constant humility of immigration,
Lurking along the damp edges of this fine America.
Fresh Africans sprinkled in Galveston alleys,
Like broken glass on Saturday walkways,
It was the absence of kindly lack,
That did it for them,
The scarcity of chaos,
The lack of open death and brewing sewers.
Asians in Ivy jungles,
Cousins in Queens, coloring pet-projects,
Turning the other cheek,
Cooking easy first names,
The fluency of language they lack well,
The promise of bush enterprise,
This did it for them.
Brown Latino bodies wrapped in paperworks,
Nested in hot asphalt chalk outlines on Skid Row,
Killing pride and sight to find dimes,
Final tales of a powerful night.
Dark seeds who will never rise through cracks.
Healthy star-spangled banners block out your very sun,
Tiny flags on office desks fling you into daydreams,
Flag pins mark important people,
Flags folded in triangles, you would take and cherish.
Large beating American hearts, you crave.
They remind steady of edges that never make us stars,
And faraway motherlands with odd elders and fruits and smells,
And first names that sound like contagions,
We have become carelessly yanked scabs,
Opening lines of a new book,
Sons and daughters of joyed mothers who would never know,
Peddling this fine America in yellowed brochures.