Issue
#3

May
2009 

a poem by Jason "Juice" Hardung

THE COST OF LIVING

America you preach to us
be the best
the fastest the wealthiest
the whitest teeth the shiniest rims.
The sky is the limit you say
keep our nose to the grindstone
and we can be whatever we want to be.

America you speak in clichés.
I've heard it so many times
fired from the lips of debutants
and parents that
don't want the tossed matchstick of hope
to stop starting forest fires in our souls
before we become jaded.
I think it was Smokey The Bear that said
people are controlled by poverty and fear.
Scared broke people don't vote
they don't rise up
they mind their business
they cut wood out by the shed
they sew flowers on pillows.
It's always privileged kids with wealthy parents
that stick flowers in the barrels of machine guns
stand in front of tanks in Tiananmen Square
strap themselves to a red wood
slap "Save Tibet" bumper stickers on their SUVs.
They want adventure.
People that are stricken with poverty
don't think their votes matter
but with lottery tickets
hope remains.

America you always say that we need an education
so we spill our blood on the signature line
of student loan applications.
We walk across the stage smile and wave
and debt embraces us on the other side
like a grandma with bright red lipstick and open arms.
It kisses our cheek
and the lip prints never fade.

America dancing in your streets used to be ok
now it's only allowed at weddings and biker bars
like Dorsey I am scared of taking
that first dance of holy union.
What if my wife wants my credit report
before my hand?
Our hair falls out we grind teeth we can't sleep
we are only twenty five.
The weather rests in our bones
and shakes like thunder.
The bill collector knocks on our door with his puny fists
that smell like cigarettes and the perfume of whores.

America you say we need to be a healthy nation
you implement your billion dollar plans
but take physical education out of school.
We don't feel like getting out of bed
where our dreams can come true.
We don't eat we smoke more we shake and
cower in large crowds
look out windows pace back and forth
break down
and don't pay rent
so we can see the doctor
and he diagnoses us with a new disease
that needs a new prescription
and one on one therapy.
We are officially mentally ill
and they will make up a name for it
if there isn't one already
we are categorized.

America now we must take a
minimum wage job
to get you off of our back
pay the doctor buy our meds
see a shrink.
Health insurance won't accept us
with this pre-existing condition.
That diploma was a down payment
on some kind of arrest
either cardiac or the kind with bars.
At least behind bars we can eat for free
and sleep knowing
what tomorrow will bring.

© Jason "Juice" Hardung

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