Michael O’McCarthy: At Your Local Gas Station
Posted in Michael O'McCarthy's Blog, Main Blog (All Posts) on October 2nd, 2007 10:24 am by Michael O'Mccarthy
by Michael O’McCarthy
At my local gas station
They sell their corporate fried chicken
Next to the beer cooler with Bar B Q,
Mashed potatoes and grits and groceries …
As you pump gas
And the dollars mount
And the petrol roars
Into your bottomless tank
There’s a CNN news TV screen …
In American y’all can
Chew on a drumstick
While innocently watching
The blood of the dead and dying
Soak into the Iraqi dirt…
But not to worry citizens
The bone and gristle
Are filtered out
By Halliburton’s oil refineries.
09-07
greenville, sc
October 2nd, 2007 at 1:43 pm
What amazing imagery… you’ve perfectly described MY local gas station, too. I can just picture the southern hick with a “these colors don’t run” t-shirt pumping fuel into his gas-hog pickup which he’s adorned with a Jesus fish, yellow ribbon and confederate flag. Looking forward to reading more of your work, Michael O.
October 2nd, 2007 at 4:16 pm
Michael O is the typical self hating American who probably lives a comfortable style but hates the fact that he lives in the greatest country in thwe world. He probably never visited some 3rd world cesspool. Instead he complains about our great country from soem airconditioned office
October 3rd, 2007 at 3:03 am
William G.
The limits of your ignorance and stupidity know no boundaries. Enough said.
October 6th, 2007 at 2:13 pm
Back in the early 90’s they started pushing investment in the fuel industry. all of a sudden you find the like of Safe Way supper markets,costco,Fred meyers and some wall Marts and sam’s clubs,etc putting in fuel pumps. that was about the time you started seeing the fuel prices go through the roof and yet most people are stupid enough to beleive that the high prices are just because of the war. When are people going to see past their own nose, and see the whole pic.
October 10th, 2007 at 1:26 pm
Ghost Walker, where in the poem does Michael O equate high gas prices to the war? The point of the poem is not the cost in dollars, it’s the cost in lives… and the public’s indifference to that cost. The hick in the poem is certainly not moved by “the blood of the dead and dying” that he sees on the TV screen — he’s too busy gnawing on a piece of chicken. We’re all keeping the corporate machine humming along by continuing to fill our stomachs with whatever fried or barbequed crap they’re selling and continuing to fill our heads with whatever propaganda Fox, CNN and the other MSM churn out.