image from “It’s Donald Trump’s Election, but the inspiration? Nixon,” July 19, 2016. EDITOR’S NOTE: The RNC was in Miami, Florida that year. I often wonder if places would write a poem, what would they tell us?

by Alexander Manzoni, elections correspondent

Record turnout. It still wasn’t enough.
Did you really think it would be easy
(easy beating these sleazy bastards)?
The Blue Wave, it was more of a stream.
We must ALL still DREAM.
The economy is in the green, they tell me.
These dirty politics stick to my shoes.
Election blues.

Open the flue before you start
that fire in the hearth.
Was it worth all of that energy?
It has to be.

These election blues have filled me.
We are a chaotic asteroid
flung through The Infinite Void.
We’re playing with our broken toys
while Our Boys fight it out,
in The Middle East.

Our feast is interrupted by
a swarm of crazy uncles
with red on their sleeves (and hats).
They refuse to leave the table
until their presence is made known
to our collective groans.
Did you hear that?
Sounds like a porn star
in the next room.
She must be meeting with
Republican politicians.

The Statistician proved useless
to the toothless hound dog.
We are wading through a sewage-filled bog.
Hope we don’t pick up an infection.
This election has got me twisted.
WHAT AM I MISSING?
Skipping school to break the rules.
Using every tool I have available
to make This World more bearable.
Even if I am unable,
at least you I know I tried
LONG after I grew tired.

What does it TAKE to get you ALL FIRED UP?
A cup, oxidized copper chalice, is shared 
between parched and cracked lips.
We must come to grips with The Reality
of Our Own Vulnerability.
Even though it seems like it is killing me—
turning me into A BEAST.
If you are going to kill me,
can you at least make it quick
before I sink this ship, myself?

The china hutch rattles.
Its contents spill off the shelf.
Smashing clattering crystal—
a nuclear missile is LAUNCHED
from the deck of a surfacing submarine.
Will it wipe the slate clean?
Or will we live in a long-forgotten dream
TURNED NIGHTMARE?
Are you aware of The Danger?

The country, it shuns the appearance of
The Wandering Stranger, in flight
from the insurmountable night.
Is it RIGHT to have to LIVE in SUCH FEAR?
We are nearing The End of a New Beginning, my friend.
Even so, WE MUST NOT BEND.
I clutch my pen, until the knuckles turn white.
Writing poetry, day and night.
My eyes catch sight of a lone galley on the horizon.
WILL THIS ONE COME TO RESCUE US?