As published at Dissident Voice, 12/13/13:
While it’s true that a hangover prefigures death,
So does a host of other events, missing a bus,
Stealing a kiss, sniffing something gross while eating…
Still, I’ve had enough of Miller High Life, that headache
In a bottle or pint glass, too many of which I swilled
That evening at Samy’s, while chatting with Uncle Sam.
A short guy acting huge, Sam had been in the US
All of five months. Coming from China, he had landed
Somewhere in California, though his accent was so thick,
I couldn’t make out which city he had stayed in. After a month
In that sunshine, he ended up in overcast Philadephia.
“Sam,” he blurted, “that’s my name. I’m Uncle Sam!”
Coming to where America was born, Sam will get
To see her commit a mass murder and suicide finale,
Though by then, he might have to flee back to Guangzhou.
OK, so Uncle Sam had no job yet, and no skill set
Beyond a willingness to schmooze, for he had become
A regular in this black bar. Having bought a 99-cent
Bag of chemical-dusted potato chips, Sam shoved it at
A chick who had just walked in. Pissed, she shoved such
Right back. “Hey, hey, you remember me!” Sam shouted.
Playing peace maker, I grinningly said, “Punch him!”
With little English, Sam spoke in clichés, slogans and
Commercial pitches, “It’s all good. Just do it. I’m lovin’ it!
It’s better here.” In short, Sam conveyed nothing but
His own giddiness, but in that, he’s no more silly than
The real Uncle Sam who preaches to us daily that
Happy days are here again, life’s looking up,
The recovery is picking up speed, we will be
Energy-independent soon, there’s a resurgence
Of American manufacturing and Detroit is back, etc.
Stripped of production and pride, we must swallow,
As if we’re already brainless zombies, an endless
Buffet of hollowed out phrases: Winning the future.
We’re the change we’ve been looking for. Change
We can believe in. Betting on America. Yes we can!
Meanwhile, America continues to hemorrhage,
With the latest, the announcement that chickens
Will be shipped to China to be slaughtered, then
Shipped right back here, to feed all the fired
American workers, pinching their food stamps.
Hunched in shelters, cars or tents, a million plus
Homeless American school children will munch
On killed-in-China, chicken-like poo poo platters
Once a month, when the welfare check arrives.
But don’t sweat, Sam sings. Just listen to the kids.
“Ma, I want to grow up to be a drone operator!”
“Me, I’ll get a PhD, then work as a pro snuggler,
Charging a peanut butter sandwich an hour!”
“I’ll volunteer at the same soup kitchen I eat at!”
“I’ll sign up for a badass uniform so I can explode
From a mine in a country I’ve never heard of.” Good
As any, these are the plans as we blunder forward
Towards that mass murder and suicide spectacle.
With his body dismembered, Sam will eat himself.
.
2 comments:
Linh:
Without permission, I will quote your recent email which indicated, "With all the meannes out there, I have very little hope." In contrast, I have lots of hope, but I see and observe reasons for such in small groups, most usually individuals, i.e.; Carol's mother Florence.
Interestingly, many of the latter isolated-group for which I have respect, can be found in your "Postcards." If one bears with me & follows a sloppy syllogism (deductive-reasoning) Linh Dinh ought to possess a fraction of hope but did not tell me about that.
The poem "Meeting Uncle Sam at Samy's" gave me a REAL sense of imminent death, extinction, but now I have a "hangover" and came to terms with the dark-shimmer in what you wrote, for example, by pointing to someone who desires to be a "drone-operator when grown-up," someone who desires a PhD and become "a pro snuggler." Then Linh Dinh the artist reflected & said, ..."These are plans, we blunder forward."
Suddenly, I as reader, became attentive to that which you called "forward." As a small kid, my parents bought me books on dinosaurs, and they fascinate me to this day. I learned that once there were at minimum, 300 valid dinosaur genera, and due to an awesome act of annihilation, NONE exist today. But dinosaurs are still on my 61-year old mind. Presently, no doubt, I have you as LOST as any dinosaur, maybe one that flew, one that lived in the Sea? But I will end by returning to your piercing/poetic line, "These are plans, we blunder forward."
Presently in comparison to the dinosaur community, there are only a handful of humanoids (creatures)which have opposbale thumbs, walk in upright position." Some of them are found in Samy's Bar, and as an unofficially united WHOLE, they are facilitating the destruction of the planet others, and themselves.
My "plans" are different than most, I want to be good and help people, pay rent-money. However, I often "blunder" and fail at even maintaining peaceful coexistence in my workplace. Questions for me: Do I have hope for better? Yea, and its only hope, it undergoes gradual chiseling Am I happy? Yea, but there's much crabbiness in between.
At present, finally concluding, as friend, I say there's binges after a series of "hangovers," and a smal group of humanoids arose after death (extinction) of dinosaurs. I don't know if dinosaurs had hope, but we humanoids have preachy "peacemakers" who would destroy entire nations in order to get energy resources, most interestingly, "fossil-fuels."
I conclude by admiring another American "wake-up call" line in your poem, namely: "Playing peace maker, I grinningly said, punch him." Upon refelction, your words are actually stronger than T-Rex's teeth, the Seventh Fleet. They are actually therapeutic for the SICK. In your hopeless-pathway, I sincerely find hope.
A little off the subject, but I just read a piece by Matt Taibbi about Camden, NJ. If you have time to read, I would appreciate any comment you may have from your perspective on the street:
http://www.rollingstone.com/culture/news/apocalypse-new-jersey-a-dispatch-from-americas-most-desperate-town-20131211
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