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The Wal-Mart Ladies' Room or, Bathroom Stall Poetry Revisited
"United We Stand 10-8-01" "God Bless America." "N’SYNC RULZ!!" Chain-store conglomerates, professions of patriotism while pissing, and a pre-teen pop star romance. One of these things is not like the other... We listen to the propaganda miniature flags propped on our cars eating up the hype eating up our gas as quickly as the left side of the screen eats a scrolling headline driving by eateries: Amen, brother. Somewhere a five-year-old is safe from the "terror" of a suicidal bomber... ...yet no one can save him from the monster under the bed. And his mother’s red, white, and blue flower and t-shirt far outdo her neighbors simple ribbon while his father is called overseas trading flags for fatigues television for tanks and our rights for retribution. Why should it matter that the leader of the free world can’t pronounce "nuclear" correctly? That’s what advisors are for. And the shiny red button in the little black briefcase seems to glow with an inner light and says, "Press me" and soon down the rabbit hole we go - Beware the Taliban, my son, the jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Dubya bird, and shun the "nuc-u-lar" Bandersnatch. Because I now fly in fear of being frisked or searched with a ballpoint pen as my only defense from terrorists who are way ahead of us. And I wonder which landmark in Podunk, Kentucky they’re going to attack and why a national guardsman with a semi-automatic has to make me take off my shoes. I wish my nail clippers could cut from my mind the blazing fires and twisted metal the families dying one floor at a time the shocked looks in the broadcasters’ eyes. And I wish, once more I could slash back the time with a pair of those box cutters. And bring back the hubris and bring back the lives the false sense of security the innocent eyes the buildings and planes the families and ties and the lies. And the lies. And I break out of my reverie with a flush and a smirk and I shamefully muse, "Shouldn’t it be ‘United We Sit’ ?" Lisa Game, 2001 |