In the middle of the night
I hear a radio speaking
in a foreign language
I cannot understand,
so I get out of bed
to tune in the channel;
the voices escape loud and clear
telling me to forget the past.
 
Somewhere in the world
skeletons shake off their derelict dust,
setting off in sailing ships and coffins,
carrying their chromosomes with them,
saying “bury the intellect” and “bury humanity”
while the sky turns to sand,
spilling from the open sockets 
of moons and mothers and monsters:
 
Drink, America, drink;
here are the matches, the airplanes, the missiles, 
here are the masters;
bring me a womb to implant
while we drinken, America, trinken.