Nation of Poets

And now that we’re a
nation
of poets, I don’t suppose
blood red
roses will land at
our feet.

How they’d want
our deets, they’d
want our
digits;

trying to buy
our sweets but we
ain’t selling.

And my eyes ain’t welling up at
their warnings because I was
word porn’s ward,
an orphan of orgies and hungover
mornings before the
sword of public
opinion even
came along.

I had constructed my swan
song before we’d
begun.

And with free love on the
tip of my tongue, all the way
north to south of
Los
Angeles, I’ve met
the wordsmiths who make a
first kiss feel
like you’ve had it just a
little bit
rough.

In protest
and pun we’re
microeconomists
of phonic traditions,
dead presidents connected through
the time-space
continuum.

Constitution of flow;
first amendment, don’t you know?

We’re a nation of poets,
but our revolutions aren’t
shown.

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