We are all still wet in America

America is still wet. Her
galactic dreams flow from her
moist vagina to pamper her
aging skin.  Fucking is no longer primal,
but a performance of and for the future.
At night she talks to her dog who sleeps
at the foot of her bed.


"I am 45 years old today,
but I still feel like an 11 year old
girl inside. I am not mad."

then she  whispers,
 pulling her year into
a sentence,

"it doesn't matter which way you vote, you
are only a dog."

Her plump breasts come quick across the
urban terrain of Brooklyn, the know it
all New Yorker who has no time to eat,
sleep, breathe, or answer the question
"are you Jewish?" can stop at the peculiar
site of wreaking purple panties left on the
subway seat. What will Fido think of this?

That night she curls and says
"They say you die three times;
when your heart stops, when they
bury you, and the last time someone
says your name." The dog doesn't
seem to mind or care.

Her perfume causes acne on her wrinkled back in
autumn. Later she'll see a feuding couple
near the coffee shop and feel like its okay
that her husband hasn't kissed her in three
weeks. Later she'll see a child, not her own,
without a winter coat walking against blister
inducing winds and know she is a good mother
Later she'll see the epitome of what homeless
is and she'll cough in thanks to God. Later she
will scrub the custom made foundation from pores
and cry for no one particular, and then remember
the tea she left on the stove.