Tuesday, June 20, 2023

and “The New York Times” has asked

17 of their columnists to pick one TV show,

Movie, Book or Song which in their minds

best describes America.

I’m guessing they mean the United States

and not Argentina or Guatemala.

I’m also guessing that they don’t give a shit

about what I would pick from my frame of reference,

or the pick of the guy across the street who likes to

ride his new, metallic green John Deere across his lawn

every freakin’ morning at sunup.

the ear-piercing machine has headlights.

It turns on a dime and mows any patch

of dirt in its way to an expanding cloud of dust.

he sits high in the saddle.

his balding head bends according to the direction

his rattling John Deere goes with the slight turn of its wheel.  

I hate that guy, but I’ll bet he has an opinion.

many of the picks by the learned columnists

were centered on movies and television shows

because, well, that’s entertainment.

and aren’t we all seeking to be entertained?

as for my pick it will be a poem.

specifically, one of my poems. a recent poem.

a poem about mass murder on an escalator going up,

and I submitted a photo of the massacre in progress

for the rubbernecker’s enjoyment. horrible situation. horrible.

that’s a fair description of America as I see it from the discomfort

of my kitchen table each morning leafing through “The New York Times”––

the national newspaper of record, cursing the racket's enabler,

sipping coffee, sometimes with plump Del Monte mango slices on the side,

sometimes with a blueberry muffin, sometimes with a .38 in my lap.

so the question is: would this exposé be classified as entertaining enough

to meet the criteria of "My America" set forth in "The New York Times" this morning?

well, sure.––  how would it not be?