the ex-pat
the newspapers
and the internet are a horror show
but we already knew that
everywhere i turn
the orange-faced bloviating billionaire
with bad hair and a small penis
tells me that he wants to make america great again
for its dying minority
has his charlatan face plastered all over the media
his huge words a dystopic poetry on everyone’s tongue
while corporatists with grandma hair and wall street cash
and senile socialist demagogues
selling sugar sweet snake oil and unicorn blood
are duking it out on the other side
and i’m left with a neoliberal hangover
repaid for my carbon footprint
on every unseasonably warm day
fighting a perpetual war i’ll never win
only don’t show me the casualties
a poet friend says
with all of this going down
maybe you should move to europe
for what i think about america
as if my money wasn’t tied up in:
new york rents
alcohol
springsteen tickets and student loans
but he’s right about my feelings for america
it’s the shit stain i can’t get out of my drawers
another says
it’s no better over there
high unemployment in spain
fascists in france
yes, i guess that’s true
but i don’t speak either language
so they could be plotting a socialist revolution
outside the cerveceria alemana
a fascist dictatorship inside la rotonde
and i’d be none the wiser drinking my wine
here, i’m getting the shakes
the elephant and jackass DTs
and the blood pressure is on the rise
it is sad
if i were an ex-pat i’d be an exuberant lunatic
while checking out venus de milo’s ass in the louvre
or looking at the whores in amsterdam
shaking my head and saying
america, america, you ignorant young fool
but i’m stuck here in the shit with everyone else
spitting red, white and blue bile into the sink
bracing for tyranny
or for the oligarchy to get up off its knees
and fight for that inverted totalitarianism
that it weaves so well
either way it’s bad news again for jesusland
black humor for two-hundred and forty years
only i’m not in on the joke
and in the bars all anyone ever talks about
is tv shows or superhero movies
they play on their cell phones and do little else
i’m sure it’s just as bad over in spain and france
drinking rioja wine in may isn’t all the rage
and the venus de milo’s ass is covered anyway
but i did get horribly drunk one time
outside the cerveceria alemana
with some good friends
we talked about art and revolution
and the illusion of freedom
we watched some bum dance like michael jackson
for his hard-earned euros
i felt like an ex-pat in that moment
far enough away from america
that i felt like i finally knew how to breathe
and how to laugh deep and long
like i really meant it.
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