Rounding the corner, reaching the top of the hill,
I know what is on its other side.
So divine is my inspiration, I can tell you with certainty:
democracy is for chumps.
Jack, you’ve stirred your last chicory.
Armies of clogged noses stand behind me,
and they are formidable… so long
as they stay on their god-dang knees.
In the plague times, we will spend
hours… days… waiting.
We no longer remember what is at the end.
Voting center? Food pantry?
To us, it matters not if you
are saint or communist.
The patriot conquers all.
The poor deserve to starve.
Tell me, brother, what will you build
when the wall is finished? Have you
ever noticed that the rich are rich
no matter your co-workers’ accent?
If a small town burns before
you have heard of it, is it less of a crisis?
Perhaps the poor village did not gather enough signatures
to get its name on the ballot.
Terrorists he calls us, but we know what terror looks like
at is most vicious and quotidian.
Until you stop burying us,
we will not close an open casket.
No disruptions! Your misery
will now be an orderly affair.
We tried giving you bigger cages, longer chains.
But did you, the ungrateful, once thank us?