the national defense authorization act of alienating your citizens and turning america into a battleground nation, barack!

N.D.A.A pushed through the womb like a baby blind & bawlingVETOTHEBILLobama fix our problems make us brave to buy shit & prosperDOSOMETHINGALREADYJackson used to say cum & get it mutherfuckers so travel down the Mississippi river to Tennessee & LEARN something! oh my, what crowds at the state fairs near the riverside stamping on sooty stages and selling corn dogs for ¢60 cents apiece! they gloat in their greases and soak in the shade all day long. the kind of aroma that makes a man. a great man, presidential even. white skin, peach-red blood & a heart bluer than the graves in Alaska. all i'm saying is that the time is over for blindfolds & guessing at the things we could never — not even with our 50 grand a year well-rounded liberal arts education, which has broadened us to the world & ourselves, like a toucan first seeing its multi-colored beak, much like when you had your first orgasm, the electric schism of your shivering body like being hit by an aqua blue bolt of lightning — not even if we were paid figurative barrels of cash, which are actually delivered to us in blue, gorilla-glue pasted envelopes for all of our troubles — still we wouldn't understand. we try because it is patriotic, though we owe it more to our grandparents than ourselves. we don't wear hats often but we'd take em off anyway. so obama! hear this hatless cry! refuse the military the responsibility they can't bear and don't want! turn away from the raving circus and cure the sick child of its leprosy! you know anyway since two thousand and ten that you can't win. mutiny was crawling up the ship, then. lions breaking out of the den, then. least it wasn't 1837! everyone's still a little bit hungry. a bit socialist, too. OOPS. mr. president i don't like rainwater in my shoes, i heard from your own personal tumblr that you have the connections, please sign this check for me. sweaty palms shaking like branches in the hurricane, smiles more grim than the morning news. a day off and i'm strolling through blogger and you're on a helicopter, wide-eyed watching the exact and distinct colors of the oil spill, lavender and sick-green and other invasive species, another mask of paint placed on a worn-out face. i hope you're still watching, obama. i hope you have one eye on those in jail and the other on those in the street that will soon be in jail. we are no longer at the opera, drying our tears in the box seat. shakespeare has made his return, and with him a chatterbox troupe of groundlings, who dawdle and sing, shaped out of the magic inherent in the earth and ready to roll around in your mud. not everyone has read the literature? isn't shakespeare on the internet? mr. president, didn't he win a nobel prize? when i mention you between sips of chai at brunch, i call you barack. my pioneer press copy of the day after your victory will gather dust infinitely in a closet bin. do not underestimate my disappointment. you were my favorite band, and your second album will flood the bargain bins. remember to breathe up there, surveying the ghost-pale ocean & cracking open a fortune cookie that reads "eat fast, for the fat fall even faster." careful not to drink too much, you might forget for a brief, blinding second that you have the bravest job in the world. i wish you well on your landing & hope one day we can play call of duty together. it will feel strange voting for anyone else but you. it will feel like i'm throwing you into a cell waiting for you to cough up the fortune locked away in your foreign cookie and keeping you in there until you behave or maybe forever, if i'm having a bad enough day.