poem of the day 05.19.16

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.