Auto-Sear

Come on, champ

Make every syllable count

Cruisin’ down ’76, speedballing cold brew joe and colt .45 like a grade-A weenie

Gloves up

Beware the holy violence of the rat governor’s briered lariat, which twirls and swoops without prejudice, here in

The hinterlands of the climate change era

Wherein

We all ride plasticized flamingos that squeak pinkly against skin down a lazy river of glacial melt

Like protestant newts

Cold to the material reality of the front

(I’ll bury my prejudice in the dirt of this poem; I hate tyrants and their trusty idiots the same.)

Just resent their tentacles is all; make ’em miss then make ’em pay

As they say

(The feeling is definitely there- it’s a new morning in America! Fresh. Vital. The old cynicism is gone. We have faith in our leaders.)

Oh, as I live and breathe

A fruit-producing machine

Old toad commando, with a cut on his eye

And seven switches down the line

Lithium, laughing gas, Lilliput, #9

You old queen, I love ya

But

I think it’s time we come clean