Thursday, May 19, 2016

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
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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