When I think about America, I think about an experiment. It’s not a country really. It’s an experiment. It was a canvas but the canvas wasn’t blank. There were rivers and trees, animals and people… some kind of landscape portrait which they gessoed white, so they could try some kind of modern art over the top and over the top it went. White can’t say much without black so they brought in a lot of different kinds of blacks for that chiaroscuro shades of gray thing and they brought in all the other colors they could find and they cooked it and stroked it and pushed it and pounded and formed it. They three dimensionalized it into the hollow of endless hands that ran it through every ritual and routine they could think of. They brought in lights and mirrors and music. They brought in ball room dancers. They wined it and dined it and then they took it home and they screwed it. They screwed it in every position and they photographed that …and then decoupaged it on to an old dining room table and then they put it in a history book with footnotes and fables for the benefit of the need to believe.
Then they put it out on the street and they sold it for whatever they could get and every time somebody porked it, it got a little less attractive until they just spit on it and punched out its lights and then threw it away in an empty, weeded lot and used it for target practice. Every bullet was a sperm engine that made it pregnant with pigs. Now we find ourselves in the final chapters of The Last Exit to Brooklyn.
I am sure that some few tried to make love to it but the nature of the experiment made that an impossible thing. You wind up In Human Bondage. From The Great White Way to Las Vegas in the sand, it’s the thing that isn’t the thing, being sold as The Thing; the thing that doesn’t exist.
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