Poem: On the Recent Election (After John Ashbury)

I don’t watch television, but I have plenty of my own reasons to take a sledgehammer to these walls. And as long as someone is willing to lie next to me, I could sleep outside just as easily. And there are days when I wake up with the insatiable desire to write “I love you” all over someone’s apartment. And I wonder if maybe he would sleep next to me. However, Plan B is packing up my feather blankets and fur hat and moving to Antarctica with Tyler. Taxation will eat us alive anyways. I’m still trying to write, but I’m trying to write about this skater punk whose dad is a meth-mouth, who I’m sure doesn’t give a damn about taxation. But of course the whole business is driving me insane, almost as much as the real skater punk does. He and everyone else are all running away from this wild-eyed ostrich chasing them with a flurry of empty grey wings. And I wonder if it’s me. I pop another stick of spearmint gum to chomp on.

“Now that his re-election is secured, President Barack Obama has a freer hand to deal with a world of familiar problems in fresh ways…” I wonder if he’s ever tried a sledgehammer. My ballot’s burning up in the corner next to my guitar because I always forget to check the mail. In any case, I’m teaching myself to play Bon Iver. Online streaming helps, but apparently, the death of the cassette tape was much exaggerated. Honestly, it’s not November here, my cousin was sunburned the other day. We live in a snow globe without the snow. Everything is polarized.

And so we freak out when a Great Dane and a deer start licking each other. My roommate is a prying psych major, definitely Mexican, and there’s a crystal jar of Holy Water on her desk. But she’s used to me howling at the moon when it rises because she understands that running around in circles isn’t enough for me anymore. The concrete here is good for flying down, though. The new griptape makes my hands flaky, which is too bad since I am such a deficient moisturizer. I’m almost as wretched at remembering to write letters. There are five; half of one is scrawled in my notebook. But even Adele failed at online dating. But typically I listen to Mutemath.

Dr. Esselstrom informed us about the fiscal crisis during Screenwriting, but all I can think about is this story about the skater punk and his meth-mouth dad. The train will take me into the valley tomorrow, so maybe I’ll be alone long enough. More than likely I’ll think about last time when Josh fell asleep on my shoulder. Now that’s my kind of dissonance. I can stay awake for 21 hours. It makes my eyes burn, but I can. I’d light things on fire and smash glass just for a kiss. But forget it. I swear I’m going to shove a cigarette into my esophagus since they tell me they’re oh so soothing. I’ll probably get cancer immediately, but at least I’ll have a few friends with me. At least they voted.

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