MOWING THE COUNTRY CLUB LAWN

You gray-belly levitate. All across the trees: each
cupped bug
wakens dead to violence in the hands of George W.
Bush. Charlton
Heston wakens skewed with rifles below his bed for
protection
against the grass that keeps on growing despite
arsenic manicure
to his lawn long ago, as a boy. You white-sky scrape
the trees.
I bliss-flip on a berry rebellion to the back
porch chore-
flung, hoping against tropes that the gaslight lie of
family
value patriotism isn't another gun for Ted Nugent's
skinning of
herds that founder on savannah grappling hooks. George
W. Bush, I
say, twisting consonants into my beard like bread all
knelt
before the chalice of cocaine white-bred, I want to
suck your
dick. Your Daddy had an actor daddy who killed in the
desert long
before this, while I was dreaming girls together from
rock salted
heavy metals, your daddy grew an army in the desert of
oil below
the crusts spinning automobile industry alive for
killing more
trees, lessening the air. It's great for business if
there's
blood in the oil of the shadow of your dad. Fuck me
hard in the
ass, George W. Bush (I say into my bread, white and
unsalted and
sinning with its shape against the newly sprung
vacuous day),
I'll tell you you're a man and not a boy with
jelly-stains on
your lips a gift of car on your sixteenth.
You purse corrupt purchases in your satchel of
gunfire
cowardice. Charles Darwin meant you were born strong
if Daddy was
a country club that could decide who dies in the
desert or who
lives. Egypt lives and Israel lives. The enemies of
democracy are
accessibly evil.


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http://www.lewislacook.com/
http://artists.mp3s.com/artists/385/lewis_lacook.html


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