It was the night before Impeachment,
And all through the House. . . .
You can finish the poem as you like.
I didn't make it to the Fuck Trump rally. It rained. I wonder how it went? I'm pretty sure it will have a big impact on the vote today.
I took this photo in 1975 or so. I wonder if they ever got the place fixed up? It is today's trope. During the Civil War, this prairie was an important lake used to ferry supplies to the southern troops. So I've been told.
I think I photographed my roommate's girlfriend in that place. There or someplace similar.
It's all history now.
As will be today's historic vote.
It is a lousy day, rainy and cold-ish. This southern air just gets into your bones.
Pretty miserable here too. Cold sleet and rain.
ReplyDeleteWhere was that house? I know you can't answer me. :)
Today's Poem of the Day:
Thinking American
BY HAYAN CHARARA
—For Dioniso D. Martínez
Take Detroit, where boys
are manufactured into men, where
you learn to think in American.
You speak to no one unless someone
speaks to you. Everyone is suspect:
baldheaded carriers from the post office;
old Polish ladies who swear
to Jesus, Joseph, and Mary;
your brother, especially your brother,
waiting in a long line for work.
There’s always a flip side.
No matter what happens,
tomorrow is a day away,
or a gin bottle if you can’t sleep,
and if you stopped drinking,
a pack of cigarettes. After that,
you’re on your own, you pack up
and leave. You still call
the city beside the strait home.
Make no mistake, it’s miserable.
After all, you bought a one-way
Greyhound ticket, cursed each
and every pothole on the road out.
But that’s where you stood
before a mirror in the dark,
where you were too tired
to complain. You never go back.
Things could be worse. Maybe.
Detroit is a shithole, it’s where
you were pulled from the womb
into the streets. Listen,
when I say Detroit, I mean any place.
By thinking American, I mean made.