Tourists Through Ghosts Poem by Kevin Patrick

a withered billboard hovers overs ruins on your left
And on your right is a graveyard called America
Smouldering in ashes of its lasting industries
Of cheap export hypocrisy
And second-rate democracy



Now all that's left are husks
of walking bullet shells
Rotting Monuments
drowning in grey swamps
See how the peasants
debate with pitchforks
They turned their liberty
and made into Frankenstein's dream



look over their
that's the founding fathers
you can see the knife
driving into their backs
they were buried
with reason
by the one Christian nation

Under the God
of the all mighty dollar
where the feeble and poor
were mercifully slaughtered



and on the road
the last eagle mourns
while overhead
the vultures wait
to banquet off of freedoms crumbs


Still, its fun to be a tourist
in a nation of ghosts.