It hangs in the
coffee shops,
swinging from
the post office,
deteriorating on
barber shop waiting
stools, sleeping
noisily in the library,
collapsing in museums.

The American Dream
is that burning feel when
you urinate, leaking on
anyone who grabs for
it without the
right color hot mitts

Mom was always proud and
Dad got you a job at
Wal-mart.

They thought they had a
nest egg, a secure job,
a talent.

If there is a talent there is
a God.

If that god bestows
gifts upon you, then
each imagination is a
curse.

Each painting, bamboo under
our democratic fingernails.

Each sculpture is
Ed McMahon smiling
on a brown paper carrot
as we slowly sink.

The new recycle bins have
been put out.

Trade in your good idea
for a text message.

Trade in idiosyncrasies for
hair plugs.

Live the fat life with
a fat car and forget about
changing the world.

It hates it when you do that.