Obama created the sequester plan. Let’smoke him out,
like Nixon! What does Carl Bernstein have to say?
Who is Deep Throat now? Now go easy, baby,
blame ain’t no indictment, the wrath’s not in,
the sky may be overcast–who would know?
holding down three jobs, bed to work
to dinner, carry lunch and bring
the bucket home, turn on TV:
See Fox trot from a thicket,
cross the road, disappear.
Gunsmoke reruns then,
chair sorely missed:
Tip it back, padded
like a cell we dwell
within, like a mind.
Let’s start a Civil War. First one ended before we won,
though down here we know better. Another one
will fix that good. Call the president names
in our United States of Opprobrium,
though save one name for later
when Mexicans take over.
Father was taught war between the races, his poor-white
birthright his own father’s legacy, his mother
one-quarter Cherokee, and they fought
through a marriage, seven children,
nine if you count the twin girls
born to die with their daddy.
Father had three brothers come home from war in Europe
and one from the Pacific, all saying nothing, waiting
until the conversation changed to the homeland,
we call it now, defiantly secure bureaucracy
keeping us safe, though cold and hungry.
Who blames the Oval Office for putting the apocalypse
into motion? Not those informing the voters,
surely. Anybody lily white hates a man
both white and black, so implies
Fox, for they own the world,
whose TV truth serum
wakes up Woodward
who writes books
but knows
they burn.
For nothing plays over TV without a corporate sponsor.
The fascista! they goose-step among their brethren
barring the door, banning unsympathetic cameras.
They convene in celestial groups,
ideologues and idiots all . . .
My district, one says, resembles a crooked, aimless penis
drawn to make a map. Now that we have the House,
the land is up for grabs. Why dawdle then?
Build a gallows, rent a guillotine . . .
(24 February 2013)
copyright 2013 by Floyce Alexander
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