I dedicate this poem to Walt Whitman and his unique style; that is, tasteless, talentless, and totally terrible.
The dirt sinks lustily beneath my feet—
This ground is America!
I too am America and this ground is mine and I am this ground.
I see a bird above my head—
This bird is America!
And by the transitive property we can conclude that I am this bird.
A single branch hangs low from an evergreen tree
And blocks my path along the road
Two pine cones hang from the root of this branch
Like genitals swaying gently in the wind
I too am these genitals as surely as they are also America.
The dirt sinks lustily beneath my feet—
This ground is America!
I too am America and this ground is mine and I am this ground.
I see a bird above my head—
This bird is America!
And by the transitive property we can conclude that I am this bird.
A single branch hangs low from an evergreen tree
And blocks my path along the road
Two pine cones hang from the root of this branch
Like genitals swaying gently in the wind
I too am these genitals as surely as they are also America.
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