America, The Dead Poem by Randy Briggs

I can see it,
I can feel it through the mess halls
of the darkest and damndest ghettos of America,
Its truth moves me like a Greek tragedy.
Only this tragedy is the sad tragedy of the American project.
The project of unique individualism intertwined with a deeper collectivism.
Truthfulness, Character, Honor, and politics which serve
For the people, the power taken back from the highest given to the lowest and
given to all.
Yet it has not to be nor does it seem to be heading that direction.
Materialism, Militarism,
Greed and an undeniable nihilism deeply rooted in the
psyche of all who call themselves
America.
Alive, hopefully, is the fire which should be stirred not once more, but always-
For democracy is action, a way of life, not a state of ruling.
Yet through and through America's poorest parts,
And underprivileged,
From the blacks and latinos to the whites and the natives,
America has yet to have found itself.
The weeds of Narrow-mindedness, naivety and innocence found in a
Flag choke the healthy seeds which sow the greatest of all the universe and
Man has to offer himself,
His own mind.
Methods of questioning and of having authority only over
Oneself cannot be found in the time,
When the working man has no time to think
(though if he did, thinking may be the last thing on his list) .
No, it is this deeply grounded hypocrisy that America runs on,
Yet does not want to face.
Walking through from birth to death in a desperation that
The rest of the world cannot see,
The America which has been born out of falsities.
How long will the culture thrive?
Look, there is the blues man,
Ask him about suffering, ask him
About America.