America 8

America puts
on a golden crown. It weighs
a ton, but that’s just,

the cost of greatness.
A splitting headache’s a small
price to pay, a cross,

just a heart attack,
nothing transcendent like gold
floating above death.

Sacrifice bodies,
ideally others’, your sons’,
or, better, daughters’,

but, in a pinch, yours;
waste the world for the profit
of eternity.

America’s head’s
in the clouds, its ass is grass,
the lawnmower’s here.