For Inauguration Day I sit in the waiting room of Fitz Subaru getting my PVC valve replaced and my engine idling-wobbler tightened. The TV in the waiting room tuned to GRIT, apparently a 24-7-365 station of shitty western movies and shows from the fifties, sixties, and seventies, the white men all rugged American assholes, the Indians fuckugly white men painted red, the women in bras that raise their tits impossibly, they look at you, pointed right angles that white rugged American assholes and fuckugly white men painted red stare at brazenly, nudging each other, and as she walks away from the white rugged assholes they stare at her ass and call her "handsome." Twitter tells me Trump on a helicopter, many of the people I follow tweeting out some version of *Bye, Bitch.* Joe Namath pitches prostate health magic pills, Joe Theismann pitches health insurance affordable even to not *yet* corpses, then the program music of the show out of commercial makes tomahawk chop noises so without turning around to see the screen I know there are fuckugly white men painted red in the scene
A POEM WITHOUT A SINGLE BIRD IN IT
What can I say to you, darling,
When you ask me for help?
I do not even know the future
Or even what poetry
We are going to write.
Commit suicide. Go mad. Better people
Than either of us have tried it.
I loved you once but
I do not know the future.
I only know that I love strength in my friends
And hate the way their bodies crack when they die
And are eaten by images.
The fun’s over. The picnic’s over.
Go mad. Commit suicide. There will be nothing left
After you die or go mad,
But the calmness of poetry.