America

by A.D. Winans

Drummed out of the infantry of death
I came back to you carrying the
Poems of my soul
Opened the door of life
And found only death inside
America
I have read the state of the union
And listened to the state of the economy
By statesmen in a state of hysteria
America where the
Poor and the black
Are sentenced to Attica
And the rich serve time at San Clemente
America where the
Coal miner's lungs are used
For corporate profit
Where the only sounds that can be heard
Is the opening and closing of the
Downtown Bank of America
America where the angry voices
Of soccer moms can be heard
Preparing their children for death
Amidst the hurried jerks of masturbation
Coming from the closets of the university
America where the elderly are treated
Like abandoned railroad boxcars
Kept idle unemployed
Forced to walk the streets
Like an unacceptable poem
America
It's hard living in a country where the
Hours are shaped like coffins
The law and order administration
Running wild at Waco and Ruby Ridge
America where the politicians sold the
Country to General Motors and IBM
And gave the people buffalo stew
And scientology
Readers Digest has renewed its option
On the educational system
The mafia weans the poor on drugs
While McDonald's and Coca Cola
Compete for the nation's heart
America
You leave a trail of death behind
Everywhere you go
Desecrating the bodies of men
Women and children
From Wounded Knee to Vietnam
Leaving behind a trail of genocide
As your calling card
America
Where the narc's of New York City
Grow fat on the fears of thousands
Of junkies
Where the high priest of the cemetery
Drinks the rooster's blood
At the crossroad of reality
America
Where holiness is found in the
Bowels of Buddha
Where Christ died on the cross
And the police were quick
To take his place
America
The years grow heavy in the
Cavity of my heart
Leaving me feeling
Like an army mule carrying
A cargo of death
Your bicentennial message
Ringing loud and clear
In every cash register across
America
The American way
If you can't kill them
Buy them into the system
America
I grow older carrying
A new found vision warmer that
A child's smile
Walking the streets of my mind's
Third eye
Lady death blinking like the
Flickering candles on a birthday cake
America
You are the only county I have known
For any length of time
And unlike some poets
I have no desire for Cuba or Moscow
But I am a man
I am a poet
I am the energy running through
Your withered veins
Not afraid of your shock and awe
Your disregard for international law
All too aware of the storm troopers
Of justice
Who would turn off the beauty
And discard it like a rusted faucet
These men in blue
Who sniff the blood of my wounds
Like a hound dog crossing
A river of blood
Their sirens playing mad tunes
Outside my window
Like a poet forced to read underwater
Where the poet twice dead
And once resurrected
Turns over in his grave
But the middle finger he raises
Is jammed back down his throat
Until the shit he shits is theirs
And the blood they bleed is his
And the cries united
Fill the air
Like a lonely bird
Lost in flight

About A.D. Winans

A. D. Winans is a native San Francisco poet, writer and photographer. He was friends with Jack Micheline, Bob Kaufman, Charles Bukowski and other poets and writers of the 50's and 60's. The author of 45 books and chapbooks of prose and poetry, his work has appeared internationally and been translated into nine languages.

A poem of his was set to music and performed at Tully Hall, NYC. His book, The Other Side Of Broadway: Selected Poems: 1965-2005, was published in January 2007 by Presa Press.

He was a winner of a 2006 PEN National Josephine Miles award for literary excellence.

He is available for readings and can be contacted at moc.orezten@6002recnadwols

Visit A.D. on the web:
A.D. Winans Website
A.D. Winans at MySpace