Wake the fuck up America, peel your ass
off the faux leather sofa, drop the chips, pry
your finger from the remote
and blink,
just fucking blink. Show some signs
of life, intelligence, anything.
Rip the duct tape from your windows
and ask yourself when,
when did your partially finished basement
become a panic room, when did you smother
everything with plastic, start hording canned food,
and at what point exactly
did you think yes, maybe I could
hide the whole family under the pool table,
except the dog of course, she
could fend for herself, didn't Lassie
always come home anyway, always save the day?
When did you decide it would be best
to avoid public places
and take the family gas mask shopping
instead of to miniature golf?
When did sitcoms become reality TV?
And do you really think anyone
loves Raymond, even in rerun?
Grind your knuckles into your eyes America
and wear through that Prozac haze, check
yourself into Betty Ford and kick
that addiction to the vague
and general sense of constant threat
embrace the DTs, the tremors, ride the spasms
in your gut as you heave from the soles of feet
and if that still isnšt enough, if you still want
something, need something to fear
fear having what remains of your child
drop shipped to you like a broken manikin
in a standard issue pine crate, fear the name
rubber stamped on its return address.
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