i’m not angry,
i am tired.
tired of a long year,
of being held hostage,
of being alone in a bunker,
waiting for resolution
and ascension, for
change and revelation,
for peace and solidarity,
for conclusion.
the fetid stench of overt
treachery will take
weeks to wash away, the walls
of government
covered in the retched swill
of presidential morass.
i’d rather have a president
fucking a movie star, then
fucking the country.
and on that day i will
stand in the Mall,
along the reflection pool,
under the gaze of Lincoln,
the shadow of monuments,
not to cheer a new president
but to protect one from
lingering insanity brought forth
by the evil that came before.