We know who you think you are.
But a picture is worth a thousand words.
Not three million illegal votes.
And I’ve got some news—you know, the thing you hate.
You’re not the King.
Not even close.
For me, it was—and always will be—Elvis, Jim Morrison and Johnny Cash.
And Goddammit, I wish my mentor, Hemingway was here
Because I believe—all political affiliations aside—
He would march right up to your tower
From his Nick Adams stories on the train tracks,
Just so he could buy you a drink that you’d never touch,
And kick your ass—
Because that’s the only thing assholes recognize.
Knee-jerk, gut reactions
That hurt enough to make a big man stop
About the fucking mess he’s created
In such a short amount of time.
Convincing thoughtless people
That one country is the Universe,
And that there could only be
With liberty and justice for all,
Except women and blacks and Mexicans and people
That have a good grasp
Not Fox TV.
You’re a moment of weakness.
An ignorant ambition.
The little wimpy voice of every closet racist, homophobe, and misogynist I’ve ever known.
Friends and family and tolerable acquaintances
That fell for it—the poor fuckers—
And they will believe—no matter what—
That you are the savior
To make their lives,
While the rest of us—
Hardworking, blue-collar type folks,
Do the real work
Creating faith and putting the big picture