American Dream

At the age of eighteen
I bit my way
through my mother's womb
and was born, bald and bloody.

I sharpen my teeth
with sandpaper in the shadows
waiting for the drunks
outside the Redskin game.

After a rough night
(no pussy, no food, cold as a dead man's shit)
I knock back twelve straight shots
of a Bible salesman's blood.

I steal a rusty motorcycle
outside of Hell, Michigan.
After one hundred miles
the towns blend like watercolors.

Wake up in Vegas in the Fall,
strung out on whale tranquilizers.
The strip lights illuminate
the semen on my jeans.

Trade the hog in for a Cadillac
with a rotting gangster in the trunk
and drive it off a cliff, lemming style,
diving out before the cliff's edge.

I watch the sun set,
vultures swooping over the cities
as we kill and fuck and laugh
our way to the American Dream

by Sean Frasier