Linh Dinh

Pissed Off Zombies

Counter to stereotype, most Yankees [go home]
Are quite civil in person. They consider the comfort
Of others, readily say “excuse me” or “I’m sorry,” stand
In straight lines, and not too close to whoever’s in front,
Like many third-worlders hounded and conditioned by
Crowding, pushing, shoving and elbowing. Americans
Try not to irk those around them. It’s more than just

The Capitalist strategy of pleasing

All customers, ingrained from one’s first McJob.
“Have a great day! Come back again. Do you
Want to supersize that?” American civility

Is inculcated in [a three, four or nine-bedroom] home
[With adjustable mortgage], and at the dinner table,
Don’t chew your [freedom] fries with your mouth open,

Etc.

The operative phrase is “in person.” Given the anonymity
Of an online persona or quick escape, protective armor
Of a car, preferably a militarized SUV, American civility
Can quickly unravel. Road rage is all-too-common and

Abusive comments

Run rampant on the web. Before the widespread addiction
Of the internet, a decade and a half ago, Americans didn’t
Have such a ready, anonymous outlet to vent their anger,
As well as porno, poetry and porno always [wipey] handy.

Normally, one hesitates before calling someone an idiot or
An asswipe face to face, at a bar, for example, not merely
Out of civility but because a crisp right cross might crash
Against one’s kisser, then rabbit punches and hair pulling,

But online, there are no corresponding restraints.

Freed from the burden of having a name, a noggin
And personal history, one can rail against strangers,
Flirt with adolescents and do pretty much whatever.
Even when a real name is used, there’s still enough
Safety and privacy to unleash one’s not-all-that-odd

Demons, after all.

We’re constantly thwarted from life, since all media mediate,
And what connects separates. Seductive, addictive screens
Keep us marooned, unsocialized and removed from whoever
Sleeps a wall or floor away. Reduced to pure minds, we may
Yet realize that the body, without mouthwash and deodorant,

Is not such a bad buffer.

Phone sex isn’t a long-term solution. Tila Tequila isn’t
All that. Put your discount family jewels away, Son.
She needs a spine specialist, them headlights are fake.
Cars and ipods are yet more emblems of our isolation.
Glimpsed through a windshield, life comes at us with
The unreality and speed of television, that ultimate

Control freak.

Zombie machine, electronic pacifier, the boob tube
Is at the heart of American relaxation and good times.
Americans perch in dark bars not to chatter but to be
Fixated by a bank of televisions, showing half a dozen
Sport events in different time zones. They go to stadiums
To gaze at the Jumbotron, then home to study TV highlights
Of what they missed at the game. As for family entertainment,
They gorge on a diet of kitschy, feel-good stories interspersed

By sadism,

An American pastime by now, bubbling up from
The subconscious, garnished with nooses and feces,
Trickling from the White House. Passively watching,

Americans feel no complicity enjoying scenes

Of staged yet real degradation, in witnessing
An endless parade of attention-starved assholas
Being screamed at (Hell’s Kitchen), punched, kicked
And kneed into a bloody mess (Ultimate Fighting)
Or eating cockroaches and maggots (Fear Factor).
The Toyota, Coke, Froot Loops, Hummer and male-
Enhancement commercials, interlarded between
These vile, entertaining scenes, reassure viewers
That they’re still safely within the mainstream, that
They’re still God-fearing, patriotic and baseball-loving.

The cheeky rudeness of the Gong Show is now super quaint.

In this TV environment, natural disasters and wars
Are also entertainment, to be enjoyed with a Bud Lite
And a tub of Cheetos, with Abu Ghraib an even more
Thrilling version of Fear Factor. It’s true that people have
Always rejoiced at each other’s misfortunes, and nothing is
More cathartic, fun and funny than someone else’s death—
One even feels slightly taller in the presence of a corpse,
Elias Cannetti has written—but our appetite for death porn is

Being whipped into a frenzy by an endless orgy of destruction,
All with the aim of selling us more Mars bars. Asian tsunami,
San Diego fires, Iowa floods or Katrina disgrace are all cool
To watch, dude. Chill, everybody else is into the same shit.

Numbed by all the fleshy and opulent come-ons, eternally
Frustrated and restless, many Americans can’t even be sated
With an open-ended snuff show that’s Iraq, now in its sixth season.
Many are clamoring for a sequel in Iran, so they can channel surf
Between a Kobe slam dunk, nuclear bombs and American Idol.