the populist
we don’t know
where this world
is going to go these days
all these madmen wanting to take us to the brink
it’s like a mahler symphony
so up and down, so full of bombast one minute
subtle and barely audible the next
no, it’s like a god awful soap opera
that’s reaching for ratings through bloodshed
and amal stands behind me cursing into his cell phone
he hold up an image of the populist
orange faced and combed over
a designer blue suit that still looks cheap
we watch him hitler salute a room full
of dead white relics hoisting american flags
he says, i hate this man
i hope someone knocks him out
i hope he falls down the stairs on national television
and breaks every bone in his body
i hope he….but amal doesn’t say it aloud
in this room full of mixed company and suspicion
he’s better than the men who want to run this country
he stands there all sweat and anger
he has known a kind of hatred in america
that i’ll never be able to describe
because i’ve been given a free pass with my skin
because i look like every man standing with the populist
the kind lone women still make wide ends around
when we’re coming home alone together in the dark
what is there to tell amal?
that he holds the future more than any of this?
this too shall pass…he shall fucking overcome?
but what if the molotov cocktails really fly
and the bodies hit the street with loud death rattling thuds
and we’re left with nothing but the will to watch it burn?
amal puts his phone down and storms out
he leaves a wake of frustration and fear
i want to get up and join him outside
where i can see him panting on the busy street
teach us both to breathe the same air again
before these demagogues suck it all out and away
but i’m stuck where i stand
which is nowhere good, i think
humming mahler in these waning weimar days. 
No comments:
Post a Comment