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Now available for preorder:
The San Francisco Panorama.
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Hello, my friends. Some of you have intimated lately, through email, that I have abandoned you. But I have not abandoned you, and think about each of you every day, sometimes more than once. Remember that my writing is for you, and only you, and I beg you to never doubt me. Indeed, my trip across the country has allowed me to dabble in new genres of literature, such as the screenplay and the motivational pamphlet. Lately, I have become a poet as well, and a damn good one. I originally performed the following masterwork on October 10, 2000, at City Lights Bookstore, in San Francisco. Lawrence Ferlinghetti himself stayed until the end, and he usually goes home around seven, so chew on that. Now I present it to you. Please read it aloud for full effect, right now. Don't mind what the person in the next cubicle thinks, because... Poetry - - - - I am America!I sing of our country From the bowels of my heart. These are not the United States Of Columbus This is Aztlan And Attica And everywhere That the prisoners run free And the businessman's republic Is a barter For peace and justice Paz Y Justicia - - - - I smoke America!From a pipe I bought For one hundred dollars In Park City, Utah During the Sundance Film Festival While the hipsters With their Digicams Made movies about themselves. - - - - This is not reality television!This is reality And the only islands Are the ones we construct for Ourselves In our minds. America! Studio apartments for $1200 a month And a Jamba Juice On every corner Of every college town In every American state. - - - - Would you tradeA night at the Apollo For a third political party? Would you rather Be a human-rights Observer in Colombia Than attend the MTV Music Video Awards? Are you an American? Do you have a DSL hookup In your loft apartment? Are there poor people In your neighborhood? Where are you tonight, Oh, sweet Jesus? - - - - SomedayWe will all be able To afford a ticket To the Super Bowl And a professional wrestler Will be President. Only then will our children, Our Amerindian, Southeast Asian, Lesbian, African-American, Chicano, Jewish hillbilly Children, know the Truth. America is a sucker's bet And a drunkard's dream. It is a poem written Hurriedly In Golden Gate Park On a book tour. It is a polluted hustle, An eight-armed monster Available 24 hours a day. America has no borders. It is death on a stick. It is tonight, And tonight I love you, My American people. My American poem.
OTHER McSWEENEY'S STORIES:
On Message By Paul Maliszewski Ask A Former Professional Literary Agent, Part Five By John Hodgman Genetically modified trees that glow. A very real interview with Katy Presland By Bob Beier Mary Astor Spit Peanuts: The first in a series of fictional anecdotes and stories featuring Abbott and Costello By Kevin Guilfoile Kids Say the Darnedest Things By Dan Kennedy |
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