not particularly patriotic

It’s news to few that I get shamelessly pumped about the World Cup! I was especially anticipating further glory to add to La Roja’s past four years (I tend to cheer for proven champions, not underdogs, #sorrynotsorry). Obviously, that quickly crumbled with their tragic performance. But as some sentimental dude scribbled, “Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds” {maybe “pride” could also be substituted}.

Anyways, after four years since living in Spain, I do still claim ties to that country, ties that sometimes crop up unexpectedly—in poetry, for instance. It’s often easier to side with other countries when you get bored or dismissive of the current one. So with some revisions from the first draft last fall, a shrug and a dash of satire.

Before I could drive
I was parachuting 
into deserted allegiance
and dying platitudes
over the plateaus at siesta.
And now I will write
in quixotic red and gold
from sun pools and poppy fields.

This is your Fathers’ land of amber
grain and last gleamings
and I like
tempting fate,
watching consumers guzzle comfort
when the Bill of Rights rifles us
to vanity.
Glibly, we convert to copper quarters,
gutted with sensationalism.
Here, have a peppermint and sit down,
virulent nation that you are.
How nice for you
that you can see it all when you never
clean your glasses.

unpatriotic blogpost


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