7  november, 2000

   the black curtain hangs waiting,
the mended hem curtailed, to view
bare ankles above brown-loafered shoes
with feet framed below, shifting back
and forth as the line whispers
and creeps forward, the people sway
and lunge toward
the buttons we want to push,
   i imagine i am in there
with him, penetrated
from behind as i
cast my vote.

i slink up to the curtain and
slip past the folds.
   each time i do this, i hear
my heart pressing my breath
out in shallow gasps
and my finger-tips tingle in fear
of creating a mistake as
i grasp the red shaft
of the lever and slide it
far over to the right.
   i read my choices again
and again ensuring
i don't slip and press
the opponents' button.

the only republican
in the bar screamed:
can i pick a winner? can i picka
winner, ninny,
at two a.m. when
more ejaculations than his
were premature.

as i make my black marks
i know i would rather
a smaller dick would be
pushed into my voter hole than
a larger one. you know
what that squeezing of the skin
entails when the pink, puckered
o that was only meant for
disposal was suddenly elected
into a position of entry.

the repub whom i wished
to fuck tonight, i accused
of  being rich because
he was too clean.
his chiseled pretty  face
and flat eyes and light
brown skin on his
perfectly framed platform
of  brown loafers and armani trim
was too clean to lean into.

as the votes are cast we question and heat
as it becomes clear that
questions though asked
would much rather be redirected.
   i prefer intercourse to rear entry,
in a bar where sodomy is a joke,
and politics a stark reality.

   i say, in roused debate,
your pinched nose
and cocaine defeat will launch
a population of idiot aesthetes--
   please, don't front
for guns because
if that cool shaft
is sliding down past
my thorax, you have got to
shoot straight and aim the pistol
or simply answer
but you go for that back door

oh crux, inside my nation
if it were about your charm
and cavalier attitude then
i would prefer to hold your dick
between my teeth and wonder
how clear you are on your politics.

do not step aside when
clear questions are put
to your behalf--but then,
you are untried.
the smartest,
repub i have had the experience
to receive and then reject wants to give me
the injection of your party line.

i would prefer to meet your lips
side by side. don't run,
republican
you're safe with us
   democrats, bitch politics
holds us all in its sway
stay, and talk to me face frontal
and eye to eye, right
or wrong we all want to say our piece.

peace, click, the phone discharges
a monotone and you are ten feet
away, but have chosen to stay
outside close to the doorway
and call inside on your cell
   because she said that you
were mopping the floor for
your government and the bleach
has gone to your skin
and your perception.

you venture
back to postulate
you were first an anarchist
before a socialist, please
don't try to tempt me to your side.
do not
ever sign your name
with my A encircled by that
slip-shod, unconcentic
smile. its
your ass hole's kiss that makes
the mark of unreasonable politics,
that has gangrene cold
in the middle, blankets
stitched by a diddling state.

though you think you've won, it was
squeezed out, laughed, coughed and
tried to fit dry.
where is your dialogue.

next time
the attempt is made
to insert inside
my mind, i will dispose
of you, not legally  or gently.
   Suppose that your shaft was
built up of funds
and if bent over to accept some
reasonable precedent, or
your adept tool of mimicry,
how far would you fit
inside of me?

the truth is large:
if you were able
to make my voice feeble,
and presuppose i was ready to
be sunk into
like the cole's hole, i would shift
that lever and redirect
it to my soft puckered crinkled
shiftless, nervefilled exit poll.

   i have withdrawn from dialogue
for so long the cold has shrunk my head.
but what could have been
was a question of opposition
to shrunken cocks which fit so easily.
   you speak of not talking
politics, but when
you have been dismembered
cut off, put out to
privatized pasture
your imagined freedom
is the opposite of amputee:
their ghost arm moves
freely though in pain
while you remain a useless limb.

would that i could still campaign
and then move on. i want to
quote your nail-biting,
but your compunctions
leave me speechless.
when can we stand by
truth and education
   or am i thinking
too much.

   i would prefer an onslaught of opinion
to this wordless administration.