Breathe deeply of this portrait of America that was,
and the America that fights to still be

Found in the back corners of Rockwell paintings
Or lurking inside of empty Mason-jar cups
Where Cool Whip containers become Tupperware
And cups hold re-usable chicken grease
Where Soul Glo’s the hair grease
Picks proclaim Black Power
And every kid is raised by the Nana on the block
Where the fire hydrant sprays like an aquatic dragon
During the hottest of days in the city’s inner streets

America the Beautiful, from purple mountains to potholes
Where every person may pursue the happiness that they choose
My country of origin, the land of my birth
Where my flesh will one day fertilize the earth

America the Beautiful, where eagles fly high
Even after nine-eleven and nine years of “why?”
How beautiful the child’s smile, dimpled with innocence
The wino on the corner opening doors, so chivalrous
The dream and reality. Immigrants and slaves
Manifest Destiny and Tea in the Bay
Coble-stone streets and horse-drawn Amish folk
Stove-pipe hat, eyes of coal, and a button-nose

Where Miss Ella and Sara both sang songs to soothe
And Lady Day sang of Strange Fruit and the blues
The melting pot where “wrong” and “right” sometime seem relative
And any living man may well be your relative

Yellow and black men; red, brown, and white
An entertainer in a G5, a Mormon on a bike
Saturday soul-winning, sawdust-floor revivals
It’s about city-street cleaning and community survival
A plethora of differences, but everything in common
No kings or royalty; you have money, or you’re common
“In God We Trust” as we breathe and stretch
Overpopulation? “Young man, go West!”
Welfare, Healthcare, and HMOs
401k’s and movies named “Blow”

This aromatic air smells of coffee flavored skin
Of butterscotch and buttermilk
White chocolate and mint
Of licorice and chocolate
Bananas and mango
All manner of people, religion, and bent

Be careful how you breathe for the paint is still wet
The edges are still rough, so some colors are seen as threats
This imperfect perfection, the dream of a globe
This “Beautiful, for spacious skies…” country holds my -soul-