Dammit!

I’ve just discovered I’ve written the same poem fifty times!!!!

And nothing has changed as a result!!!!

What the hell is wrong with you people?

i am whispering because it is supposed to be a secret
that americans enjoy the taste of blood. it reminds us
of the life we lived on the frontier when the comanches
were so many nuisances and the bison were as thick as weeds.
our sins became traditions just so we could claim again and again
that war is not something we desire, when in fact we craved
its flavor, its edge, its happy abandon.

this is who we are.

the leftist who does not on occasion dream of sighting a famous man
in cross-hairs has forgotten his patriotism. the rightist
who imagines a perfectly enforced death sentence merely denies that
killing the innocent is not only acceptable to him, but honorable
in pursuit of order. the way the red smears all of our tongues,
you would assume we had bitten them through long ago,
and perhaps we have since we do not speak of these things, unless
we whisper them to each other, stroking our children’s hair,
looking for flecks of red on their skin, taking odd comfort in
how they will surely do as we do, and not as we say.

this is who we are:

someday we may drink so much blood
we will bloat. we will become obese and clumsy
with the yearning for more. we will lumber up to alleys
and pound in the heads of sleeping veterans. we will
knock on the doors of churches and ask where the action is.
we will look through telescopes at our own burning homes.
we will sail the seas searching for veins. we will run our fingers
over the rippled intestines of our parents. we will smash fresh-ripped hearts
into each others’ faces like slices of red velvet wedding cake.

and this is also who we are:
the ones who know we can stop
whenever we want.