American Autobiography

I'm naive enough to have something to say;
Don't blame me, I'm just drawn this way--
lacking the guile
to fake a smile
a hero with no dragon to slay.

And I think that I shall always be
frustrated by my mediocrity--
a derivative child
predictably wild
Uncle Sam's bastard progeny.

Now the remnants of the Baby Boom
are cheerfully concocting global doom--
their pasts repented
they're smugly contented
pontificating from the living room.

Ideals are quaint, like antique clowns;
we search for reasons that can't be found--
both Generation X
and "Generation Next"
haunted by the feeling we've been let down.

Perfection's dictated by a Barbie doll;
Nostalgia subs-in for accurate recall--
hey, truth is pointless
and leaves you coinless
so kneel at the altar of "having it all."

Bouncing off walls and hitting the bong,
glamorous cadavers emit diversionary song--
narrow hips shaking
saccharine voice breaking
prefabricated torment over love gone wrong.

They say the systems can't be beat,
but the public wants a lucrative cheat
so by desert sands &
on Indian lands
casinos brim with acquisitive heat.

And everybody was Kung-Fu fighting;
franchise dojos use flattering lighting--
it's soft-serve ice cream
as the American Dream
a baited switch we fishes are biting.

But newly minted soldiers for democracy
are lethally defending our hypocrisy
authentic reproductions
awaiting their instructions
and I wish to announce my apostasy.