• Vol. 09
  • Chapter 11
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Politics make me dream of drinking vodka laced with cyanide

Talking heads spew swill, until
my eyes glaze over with thoughts
of penguin guano and fields of shrapnel
impregnating wild horses and dandelions.    

Too much he said, she said, no one ever
pays a penalty for backshooting innocents
and my mind goes dead, tossed in a vinaigrette
of whipped up anger and blue state crumbles.

Monday morning comes with relief I can fill
my head with dust clouds of vagrant work,
unshrouded by dull hanky panky of the privileged
parading their excrement on once live TV,

After-five bars of wine-filled sporting delusions
preclude perseverating over voter fraud, grand
and not so grand juries of sneers, ignored subpoenas,
theories concocted in the minds of Madison Avenue
dilatants, arm wrestlers, and presidential thieves.

At night I fall asleep, sometimes, dreaming of never
land, where I never land, instead waking in a cold
sweat under a moon deluded, denuded of reason,
hoping tomorrow is somehow different, knowing
full well that truth and justice have died in a churning
vat of stuffed shirts and platitudes of dirty laundry.