VOTE

-



Don’t vote because you have to
Don’t vote because you to need to
Don’t vote because it is your civil duty.

Vote because you love America the way you
Love your babies
Your dogs
Your closest friends
Your Mom
Your Dad
And everyone else who keeps your feet
Steady on the ground

Vote because a man has attacked
Everything that the flag stands for
And burned it all to the ground

Vote because despite its devastation
You know it’s still there
Like your God
Or your heartbeat
Or your dreams
Or the wishes that have yet
To come true
But still might.

Vote because you will stand in
Harm’s way
To protect the innocent
The good
The least powerful
The everyday Jane and Joe

Vote because from the time
You were a child
You pledged allegiance
And you asked not what your country
Could do for you
But what you could do for your country

Vote because people
Men and women
Lose life and limb every single day
To make sure that your freedoms
Are protected and guaranteed

Vote to right the wrongs
That evil men have wrought
Who put dangerous people
Sick people
In powerful positions
So that they can get what they
Want
Whenever they want
At the cost of you

Vote because
we need desperately to rally around
A common enemy
Or we will die

Vote for what is right
What is decent
And kind
Vote because you need to look
At your children
And grandchildren
Without your heart breaking
Every single day.

Vote because it’s the only voice
That we have
That can be heard
Loud and clear
After being ignored and insulted
And humiliated by the
Lashing out of fools.

Vote. Vote. Vote.
Because if you don’t
Tomorrow will be cast adrift
Like a doomed ship
That despite it’s
Ambition
And reputation
Will sink to the bottom of the
Sea
With you on board.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

MY OWN PERSONAL MERMAID. BELIEVE IN HER.

-
Image
It was a sad time in New York City, especially on Park Avenue where I lived then. My given name was Magritte, for daddy’s favorite artist Rene Magritte, who thought that embracing mystery was “as indispensable as snow on Christmas.” But everyone, as far back as I can remember, always called me “Mags.” I was 8, an only child, who was impressively precocious for her age. My favorite authors were Kafka, the feminist writer Naomi Wolff and Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. When I was seven, I wrote a love letter to Stephen Hawking. He wrote back saying, “Jesus, I just can’t figure you out.” I had a room that was handmade to make me feel that magic was at all times of the night and day, a dependable, ever-ready option thanks, in part to the twinkling stars, comet trails, and cream-colored clouds that streaked across the infinite, midnight blue sky of my ceiling  that was painted by my mom when she was young, healthy, and still able to do things like wave to daddy’s video camera with daffy rubber-f
Read more

What Must Babies Think?

-
What must babies think, As they wonder why their Push pram rocket ship Which on most days thrusts them Into the universe of the fiery sky ball and chatter filled park Sits mothballed in the corner Staring at the wall like White-haired bench people Who always seem so Sad and forgotten? What must dogs think The Wal Mart greeters of the Animal world Who use the sign language Of the excitable nose and tail To communicate their borderline insane love for anything that moves When they trot out first thing In the morning like they’re in competition at Westminster Only to discover A show of silent concrete? What must jets think Who usually cannibalize people Until their bellies are full When the only in-flight meal Is a flight crew Two pilots And 900 steerage ghosts Who sit Without hope or destiny In the kind of Quiet That follows anyone Who has ever walked Away from a grave? What must birds think The cocky pigeons The Blue-header vireo Or the Y
Read more

When Ours Parents Are Gone

-
I have not spoken to my dad in over forty years. Years ago I turned my back on him and walked away and that was that. No, we didn’t have a fight. He died when I was 25 and that walk away came right on the beat at the conclusion of the service in the cemetery after we lowered him with sway and love deep into the womb of the ground, like a treasure chest, ceremonially buried in that family secret place that only we would ever know the location of. When you bury a parent, time suddenly becomes unfathomable, unreliable, it suddenly faints away like a delicate socialite into the landing strip of a waiting divan, from the searing heat of loss, Our parent’s final breath pushes us into a dimension of exquisite separation and inextinguishable pain, where everything still feels just within our reach but in truth is now as far away as the weeping moon. The cemetery only knows formality. The weathered stones, which, like the canvas of our souls, have epitaphs and life stories carved deeply into th
Read more