Why are your libraries full of tears?

I woke up this morning and I was no longer at home. I am in a far off land where people put more stock in a security blanket faith than in their own best interests. I am among people who desire pain and suffering, strangeness and dividedness. I am among people who hone hate and take the rights of others and laugh at them.

I am not proud to be an American today. I am embarassed. We, as a people, have been lied to and joked at, and we take it smiling. And I am sad. I am sad that no one listened. I am sad that I have no youthful idealism. I am sad that we are all alone in this world, and we are drowning, drowning in air. I am sad that I live among the newlywed and the nearly dead. I am sad that Canada is so far away.

I feel as if I were punched in the stomach. The last time I felt like this it was September 12, and I was watching out the windows for airplanes. Now, I don't know who to fear. But I am actually scared. All this time, he has been trying to make me scared, but in fact, it was only him who could actually do it. I look over my shoulder. I am scared.

I hate arrogance. I hate SUVs that are bigger than my apartment. I hate cell phones and incessant conversations about drivel. I want to cry all the time. I want to write all the time. I want to be removed, be aloof, to let it not matter. But it does. And that hurts.

I hate myself for tying my last bit of idealism into a guy who looks like Lurch. I hate myself for letting it get away. It's all gone, and I feel like it has been ripped from me.

I hate this culture, I want to go away. Where would I go? I don't know anymore. I just don't know.

This makes no sense. I make no sense.

America by Allen Ginsberg
America I've given you all and I'm nothing
America two dollars and twentyseven cents January 17, 1956
I can't stand my own mind.
America when will we end the human war?
Go fuck yourself with you atom bomb.
I don't feel good don't bother me.
I won't write my poem tilll I'm in my right mind.
America when will you be angelic?
When will you take off your clothes?
When will you look at yourself through the grave?
When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites?
America why are your libraries full of tears?

Now, that makes sense.