The political grind-house has finally gotten to me. Here’s the rough-cut of a poem I worked out this morning. Makes me want a slice of apple pie and a slug of Pepto…
The American people are tired
of being The American People.
Every few years
we become blocs in a game
of jingoistic Jenga. Well.
Now we’re in a heap, huddled
en masse, scratching our heads.
Which dream was it we all had, again?
Awash in the apoplectic,
soaked in corrosive lyes,
hung out to dry, these colors
can’t help but run, worn out
from one too many cycles.
Which way do the stars go, again?
The polls –
one – are predictably fickle and Delphic
in the worst way: ironic
damnation at the hands of the spinster.
Are you with me, America? Say it again!
We peddle brass knuckles, not rings,
at the sundry gift shops, roadside stands,
burger joints, BBQ pits & pancake
houses littered along the pilgrims’ trail.
We’ve learned: a blind bet’s as good
as it gets, most days, on most horses.
Win, place, show, whatever—send in
your tax-deductible contribution, yet again.
We have a pool going, wagering
when the Heartland will be broken
back down to Flyover Country.
We’ll move there in droves,
hide in the corn, squat in
abandoned campaign offices
and decommissioned missile silos,
for the next onslaught, coming soon
to a battleground near you.