Ode to a Virginian Man Who Tells My Family’s Homeland to Go Fuck Itself

Andy Warhol was a Lemko. A Lemko–like me–was Andy Warhol.
I stopped believing in revision long ago, so come closer:
my paternal grandfather stared through a displaced persons camp’s
barbed wire; my maternal grandfather shrank into himself in Dachau;
Operation Vistula flushed the syllables my English hides from Poland.
Allow me to drive your pick-up truck straight into the local convenience
store’s gas pumps. Allow me to piss on the stars-and-bars that designate
your hate. You tread on me, not knowing I hide underground,
operating radios, sending coded messages regarding your
whereabouts & insurrections. Lean closer, Southern son.
I want to see the red on your neck.