an American poem by an Untermensch

In this land of silk and money,
the princess is deformed
and the steppenwolves conformed...
pioneer ghosts wander
the sprawling mechanic farms:
their descendants dwell in skyscrapers
and some mole peoples
in the subwayterannean Hades below...
while a purple sliver of the former
caviaort with shaven and soul-numb ladies
in coke-glass clubs where the dull murals glow...
and the phone calls go out
to class folks they know:
clean-living suits who love Jesus like the millions
and pull in the millions without crass questions:
"an ample donation from the honorable Herbert Blitzstein,
a slight request from The White Star Line"

Yet the shrewish question remains,
what of we:
the untermenschen? :
the nerve-shot gaunt and vast obese,
those with addictions and fleas,
unmoneyed 5th sons in wheel-chairs
from Afghan mines,
felons and scullions,
starving artists and hallucinating poets,
excess liberal scholars and old-school journalists...
such cannot "compete" in the brutal economy
and so lady liberty discreetly brushes us
out of her blue-blood flaxen hair:
our long descents obscured
by her Titanic torch's incandescent glow...

so some of us,
though unworthy to serve the Ubermenschen,
won't let go
but hang on like dirty magnets
to her follicles, braids, and stubs...
collecting ultra-Spartan ill-fare checks,
or frequenting methadone clinics,
pushing our gray rubber wheels,
and clinging with steely tenacity
to the world we know:
her vast gilded decks,
hostile white E.R. beds,
the t.v. God who fills our heads
with myriad images of war and murder
with dreams of snide frivolity and pool-side squander,
ice cold psychiatric "holds" if we rebel,
3-egg food-boxes fit for Frodo or Meriadoc...
and the purple fountains of comi-tragedy
from which we drink
our short, nasty, and brutish draughts