“The future is an infinite succession of presents, and to live now as we think human beings should live, in defiance of all that is bad around us, is itself a marvelous victory.”
—Howard Zinn, “The Optimism of Uncertainty”

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Five AM.

The sleeping pill I took hasn't totally worn off.

The guy who admitted grabbing pussies

has won another four-year hitch.

President Combover. Grifter and Chief.

And it looks as if both houses of congress

are in his pocket. I think their plan

is to ban abortion nationally, scrap social security

and Obamacare, boil universities down to keggers

and football stadiums, replace scientific inquiry

with Magic 8 Balls and Ouija Boards,

and make us all carry guns and bibles

and go to church, especially Muslims and Jews.

We're a Christian nation now, in word, if not deed.

And since the Extreme Court told Combover

all his actions as president are legal,

we'll have our first American-born king. How do we say

goodbye to democracy? What parting gifts

do we have for checks and balances?

Personally I can't wait to see all the diseases

we'll cure through prayer, all the money

we'll give to needy billionaires, and isn't oligarchy

fun to say, a linguistic and grafty gift

from our new best buds, the Russians,

who phoned in bomb threats to polling places

on election night to prove their love for the end

of the American way. So much to look forward to.

The un-wedding of gay people, the un-transing

of the trans, illegal aliens wrangled

and Fed-Exed back where they came from,

loyalty oaths in government, an economy based

on Combover's whims and wet dreams,

such as tariffs on Chinese goods

that will magically reduce prices,

even though consumers pay tariffs, not nations.

I'm pretty sure it's illegal now to point that out.

Or to refer to his hair as anything but lush, an orange star,

a bright flower on top of the most-Mensa brain

ever created by God in His infinite wisdom

and love. As it says in Lamentations, Chapter 2,

“A stiff-dancing and spray-tanned man

will be born unto the most powerful nation in the world

and solve all its problems with a snap of the fingers

on his uncommonly small hands.” Plus he's sexy, so sexy,

and has never done anything wrong, ever, not once,

not even half a time, except maybe the few times

he listened to advice. To doctors. Scientists. Engineers.

As if they know anything he doesn’t. About physiology

or climate. Matter. Electricity. Physics. I mean,

going forward, an object in motion

will tend to stay in motion

if he says it does. The only thing he needs to know

is that he’ll get his way. That's the purpose

of government now, of life in America,

which has been purified and simplified

to serving the largest id this side

of everywhere. I, for one, feel lucky to exist

in a time when I can be grateful

I don't have offspring or all that long to live.

But kids, if this poem survives,

if books do, and reading, curiosity, if by some miracle

dictionaries aren't banned for trying so hard

to tell the truth, look up "democracy" and see

if something vibrates in you, some strange

and electric feeling, if there's a twitch or twinge

of familiarity to the idea of each person having a say

in how they live, and rise, knowing millions of us

owe you an apology for all the work you still have to do.

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