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A Poem: Shitty Election Shitty Poem 

I hate Monopoly. But as they claim
you can’t lose if you don’t play.
Remember that day in grade school
when you learned about the electoral college
and now you recognize the name
as a staple “I slept through civics class” joke.

My frustration streamed backwards then.
“Why don’t they just count the votes and tally—
How dare some outdated system stand between!”
Oh, the slow ignorance of dial-up
and the millennial generation.

So toils another election year, dealing us
the smack of television promotion
(and by smack I do mean crack)
like all junkie dealers
to make ends meet.

If I hear one more silver haired sassafras
tout the progress of ’68…
Remember 1992 you arrogant fuckers? And since?
Suspenders and white collared shirts and unethical trading
were never cool, you know. It was always illegal.
But if you slept through civics class
civic responsibility is a breeze.

So let’s talk about the issues
hunger health care jobs
That’s it?
I don’t want to talk about that.
I live that.
It hurts.

Let’s talk about something else
Like the silly tall tales of history
Where knowledge is free
(except in an election year)
and certain subjects matter to me.

Like how I am inevitably and supra-consciously
affected by the suicides of soldiers
the unfightable war
the bleak tendency, to look and not see.
So enraptured by the image I stopped looking
near on ten years ago
when war was war.

And then my grandfather died
speaking of inevitable
and the personal void of a veteran’s mind
that thins bloodlines and thickens
the slow process of gravity, became clear.
A sinkhole of guilt and murder and death
and politics.
Oh those politics
of the greatest generation.
But that was when war was good
(especially in an election year).

And now I know Great Grandma Emmy was an orphan
who never voted.
A child of the Bowery
in 1883
whose daughter later married a man in the cavalry
who still shook in 1923
tremors of gas and love and remnants
of sheer inexperience.

And here I sit
the promulgate of their lives
with intention to compose an anthem
that only devolved to rhyme
which might be the most apt analogy yet.

But then I think of an elephant with no tusks
reminder that all evolution is a serious mind-fuck.
The future is not ours.
But it could be.

Speaking of...

  • A poem by Christine DeAngelis.

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