Independence Day, log 3: 7:25 AM CST, 2016

 

 

If I wrote a letter to Donald Trump

I would ask him:

how many men did you fire to

get this far?

And how many women; do you

     fire them, or is that below

     your pay grade?

Have you ever met an immigrant

you didn’t like

after shaking his hand and asking

what his daily wage is?

Is he taking American jobs

or is he doing the jobs

others will not?

Do you believe in climate change;

do you still call it global warming?

How high will your wall be?

Will you put your name on it

like your temple in downtown Chicago?

Do you believe in a god

that loves people

or punishes?

Have you ever met a Muslim

you didn’t like

after shaking her hand and admitting

that you’ve never read the Qu’ran?

Did you look out the window of

     your steel tower when the

     people of Chicago shut down

     your rally?

Did you fear

for your life

like the minorities you trample

or did your gun policy save you

from a largely peaceable mob?

 

If I got a reply, it would say

gun rights protect you, too,

if you’re smart enough to own one.

And shoot, if need be.

Every day in Chicago,

gangbangers shoot white folk,

and aren’t you scared, living off

     the red line, the stop where you

     live, it’s ridden

with low-lifes.

 

If I asked

who will you tax first

would you say,

yourself,

or the other ninety-nine percent?

Did that scare you too,

or did your off-shore accountants

have that under control?

Do you regret

the things you say

or just when the media

or leftist crazies

call you out on it?

The bigotry, I mean.

 

He’d probably respond,

let’s make America great again,

because it has fallen—

let’s start the empire back up,

take my hand,

and we’ll rule the galaxy together.

 

If I started a petition,

it would be this year

and it would state

that the world has bled enough

and what we need

is someone strong enough

to stop it cold in its tracks.

Spin the earth back onto its

axis because

dammit, 2016, you’re drunk, go home.

 

We all want to radicalize.

Or to conform.

Sooner or later, we realize how similar we truly are,

that our deep tissues work

in the same way

and are the same shade of red

that the Brits wore

and that the colonists flew.

 

If I wrote a letter to Donald Trump

and enclosed my petition,

would you read it, Mr. Trump?

Would you consider other options,

could you imagine yourself

to be wrong?

Is this still a game to you—

are you laughing after every debate

when you re-watch it

to see, on DVR, how your hair

     looked

and what you said that made

     eyes turn

and outbursts rain down?

It is a giggle, Mr. Trump, and secretly, I still hope,

that this is a game for you

and you’ll fold when the hand you’re dealt

is compromised

and that someone in your circus

will tell you, alright, enough’s enough,

get out while the gettin’s good;

even if it means you make money,

even if you get your wall,

we hope,

Mr. Trump,

that you will not be our next president.

What will our children

think of our generation,

should we not go to the polls

to represent our belief

that multi-billionaire businessmen

do not represent

the people of this nation,

this shithole, this America, 2016?

Does Big Brother really

     watch out for the best

interests of the common man,

the dock worker, as it was,

the sales clerk, as it is,

with his eyes gleaming from a steely tower?

I see you, Mr. Trump,

and I hope you do, too.

 

If I wrote a letter to Trump,

and I wouldn’t,

it would be this one.

I would post it,

and kiss the seal,

hoping for a better tomorrow,

(maybe in four years)

and some sanity in America

Again.

 

If King Trump ascends,

deal me out,

find me in Canada,

I’m with you there,

call me in four years or eight,

be ready for me, America,

I’ll come back for you.