The Lord(s) are Un-American 

My America undresses its wounds to the world—
the Fathers memories living in torn clouds
and forgetful weather scribbled over in black.

The  new gods lick mine/our bones clean,
leaving the crumbs for the hungry aban-
doned by their once great country.

(All the bombs, the rockers red glare
can't create patriots better than 
the Fathers good words.)

My flag once was my father(s) (and) mother’s.
Their true anthem, every word, every 
single word, can now only be whispered.

Now,I watch the new gods in their jealousy
seek to colonize the world’s children
to maim those wishing only a gentle touch.

I cry as I imagine the true God,
witnessing his sons deported— the 
new gods aiming rifles at the rest.