In the distance, outside the door to
your basement, a crowd
the Star Spangled Banner.
All swirl-eyed, and promising water,
a circled-hiss, a lie.
Fox-headed, and painting Old Glory
onto his chest, to the amazement
of even the millionaires.
In a dark room, eyes roll back,
towards Wellesley. Eternally, hung
on the wall. The
patriarch, shaking the hands of
Dreaming of the
The mountain, surrounded by
The Gods throw bolts, and
fireworks, at-You, through the
From the cinder, on the lawn,
of a house, on-fire and crumbling,
are catching flame.
And if all goes as planned then
the bonfire's a beacon,
we're not going anywhere.
We are the rocket's red glare.
Garnering hope from those
driving to work.
Hitting the light switch, to
see the results.
Trying to look for America.
Vote. If you're so inclined, vote for Bernie.