America (in progress)

America I lie awake at night and imagine a planet where you are only a bad memory.
America don’t worry this is not a poem laying claim to your past present or future. I know you don’t want me to have any of it and that’s fine.
I choose the world and I choose a future without you.
America I have no demands or questions. I’m addressing you but I don’t expect a reply and I don’t want one.
We’re building a railroad for you. It leads all the way to the ocean and off the edge of the earth.
Your flag is covered with blood and the stains are too deep to wash out.
America they are your troops not mine.
Everytime I hear that line, I think of my sisters in Nepal scaling the Himalayas with guns in hand, ghosts of debt-ridden peasants creeping through the jungles of South Asia, the Palestinian boy lifting a rock and daring to dream of a land of olive trees planted on top of your settler outpost.
That day will come and you know it. Your fear leaks out of the pores of your helicopter gunships, machine guns, and guided missiles.
I’m not an anarchist, but when the black masks speak of dreams too large to fit in your ballot boxes, they’re speaking for me.
America you are an opiate when the people want the cold truth.