Mile 11.9 by Cheryl Caesar Caesar
Legend tells us Cincinnatus
twice gave up a dictatorship
when he saw it wasn’t needed anymore:
he returned to his plow.
You wouldn’t get that, would you?
You’d call him a loser
if you had any idea who he was.
And the closest you’ve ever been to a plow
was that offkey rendering of “Green Acres.”
At your rally in Cincinnati, you had to ask
if the mayor was a “democrat,” and then pretend
you knew it all along. Guess what? We’re all
democrats; our country is a democracy.
The limbo bar keeps going down.
Now you point at a protestor and bark, “Out,”
like a grade-schooler playing at a stern
headmaster. But it’s worse than that,
you mime masturbation like Louis C.K.,
or some cage fighter, over his downed opponent.
Or like a bored ourang-outang pulling his pudding,
that folks come to watch, and snicker
at social norms violated by a creature
that looks second cousin to a human.
What will your next act be? Will you spit
like a camel (turns out it’s actually vomiting)?
Spray the audience, like a male cat
marking its territory? Defecate?
keep drawing crowds with just the lizard smile
and your phototropism, turning side to side,
soaking in applause like a reptile in the sun.
Monkeys throw feces too, and some will always stick:
in minds, and on the interwebs. There will always be
an unstable kid to buy a red hat and an AK-47
and drive nine hours to shoot up a Wal-Mart.
You are no Cincinnatus, and no statesman.
You will never go willingly. It’s time to drag you out,
horizontal and screaming, like Assange,
leaving your shit smeared on the Oval Office.
I’ll go with Gillibrand, I’ll take the bleach.
“Hoarders” can come and film the clearing-out
of a power-hoarder. The ratings will be
great, tremendous, terrific, amazing, bigly-winning.