It strikes us; unanticipated backwards
marathon, baton passed over to
international protagonist, spitting
fire
at sword-wielding oppositions.
The greater good as bullseye.
From the bottom, we rediscover
the capacity to love, to rise against
an orange-faced extension
of trash talk, of “locker room talk”.
Roll the rock up a hill, then release.
Momentum aimed at the pardoning
of reality TV stars and white-hooded
ethnophaulists.
“To Mr. (Not My) President,
Your atoms are toasted by hellfire,
unfit for writing in American timeline.
We are toasted, by no other choice but
joining in a chorus of despair. Svedka
cocktails (fantasized as Molotov) are discounted
for those awaiting some metempsychosis
of good favor.
With all remaining heart,
Fuck You.”
January, 2017. Inauguration.
The nation will learn what it’s
like to be an Indiana resident,
under evangelist representation,
pinned down like cardinals in a coal mine,
but we will wake from blue-flamed
bedding, enlarged as phoenixes,
sharpened like a vision to step forward.
Rusty Truck 