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October 29
BLACK SWAN EVENT

Former Miss Finland Ninni
Laaksonen and former Tru-
man Scholar Moira Smith had
their asses firmly fondled
by, respectively but not
respectfully, Donald Trump,
and Justice Clarence Thomas,
Trump because she looked like a
pre-pregnant Melania,
Thomas because he wanted
her…to sup right next to him.

for Kim Washington
October 30
ELECTILE DYSFUNCTION

We last saw Carlos Danger
in late March*, adrift on his
raft of crotch-shotted spoiled sheets.
Weinergate rhymes with penis
the way Watergate rhymes with
torture and lets not forget
Whitewater where Comey was
Deputy Special Counsel
to the investigating
Senate Committee. Quick send
in the clowns. Don’t bother they’re…

October 31
TREAT OR TRICK  

Don’t you just love that our race
for the country’s top job spins
on the whirred gyroscopic
perversions of three spooky
men—D. Trump, B. Clinton, A.
Weiner—who think with their dicks?
Now imagine a world run
by women, where the first man
within sniffing distance of
the prize was pushed out by sexed
up Kegeling amazons. 

for Erin Blitz
November 1
THANKFULLY, THE CALL HAS FINALLY COME

I’d been waiting, swarthily,
through this whole impossible
election season. Waiting
for the word. Waiting to take
action. The three-note ringtone
on my burner phone (JEW-S-
A, JEW-S-A) awoke me.
A man with a faint Euro
accent, speaking from the crypt
of a shadowy central
bank, spilled my marching orders.

November 2
DRAIN THE SWAMP  (THE POLLS TIGHTEN)

Raised on television and
revenge, we just might get our
plot point right: someone to rule
us so brutally stupid
and ostentatiously id-
norant we don’t feel so dumb
no more. You can’t have a beer
with him since he don’t drink but
you can feel he’s one of us:
a walking, shouting realtors’
comp for the slum we live in.

November 3
THE ENTHUSIASM GAP

What is it about this baked
potato of a woman
which provokes such loathing or
meh, icky acceptance? She
laughs, folks cringe. She speaks purple,
people see red. She hits “send,”
off with her head. The other
guy could shoot someone on Fifth
Ave—as he mimed it—his gang
would vote for him ten times each.
She manages half a vote.

November 4
TRUMPISM IN THE LAND OF JEFFERSON, WASHINGTON, FRANKLIN & HAMILTON  

Fascistic Republican-
ism is the new black. We
sink or swim with ink spilled, marks
made in the booth we fought for.                          
Blood. Kin. A couple hundred
years of unpaid labor. Hey
neighbor. The far right digs a
beachhead against the rising
tide of a majority
minority nation. Young,
scrappy, and obese, we flail.   

for Daveed Diggs
November 5
MICROTARGETING  (SWING STATE SCRIPTS)

If I was a Pacific
Islander/eager Asian
American my Call Tool
would have fed me to Friday
night Nevada phones needing
company, but my knowledge
of Manzanar and hula—  
too sketchy. The Woman-To-
Woman script begged reading for
Colorado, but last I
checked I’m short a uterus.

November 6
(WITHIN)  THE MARGIN OF ERROR

Inside the chalk lines lazes
the margin of error, sprawled  
on the grass, under the late
fall sun. In his tattered bag,
he squirrels charts and crystals, a
cigar and a banana
for the coming cartoon slip,
mirror-bright microchips. Chips.   
Diminishingly small, we
are an edged sum, rounded down.  
Every shut eye ain’t asleep.    

November 7
SAY IT LOUD—I’M WHITE AND I’M PROUD  (GET ON THE TRAIN FBI REMIX FEATURING JAMES COMEY SPECIAL GUEST HWA HONKEEZ WIT ATTYTUDES)

Some people say we got a lot of malice
some say it’s a lot of nerve I say we won’t
quit moving til we get what we deserve we’ve
been ‘buked and we’ve been scorned we’ve been treated bad
talked about as sure as you’re born oooweee you’re
killing me altright you’re outta sight so tough
you’re tough enough ooowee you’re killing me oow

for Ron Miles
November 8
NAME, ADDRESS, PHONE

Noel Ali. Phyllis Pyles. 
Mimi Violin. Lucas
Miles. Misty England. Michael
Gentile. Alma Soria.     
Ricky McGill. Mary Guy.
The names, the beautiful names
of Americans. I tried
to reach you, but couldn’t. Now
we must put away trifling
toys, the empty candy of
entertainment, and choose best.

November 9
EIGHT YEARS AFTER OBAMA

a whitelash, with wicked torque.
For every action, equal
and opposite reaction.
Pale men and women without
college just changed the course of
this country for good, and bad.    
Not tactics: plate tectonics. 
Not farce: tragedy. It’s real
hot and will get hotter. This   
goes well beyond words. It is
done. It is done. We are done.

for Ofelia Diaz
November 11

Dear Readers:

I would like to thank you for taking this journey with me since February 1, 2016, the day of the Iowa Caucus, until November 9, 2016, the day before yesterday, when enough votes had been tallied to declare the winner of this most historic pestilential election, uh…presidential election.  In particular, I would like to thank those of you who subscribed for daily delivery of these Elective Poems via the topically-charged and apparently pertinent medium of email, and that wonderful subset of you who provided me with intermittent feedback on my seventy-seven-beat blips: ideas, further ideas, constructive criticism, applause, skepticism, corrections, conversation, laughter—all of which I took as nourishment on this long river trip.  It sometimes felt like paddling into the wind (not much fun upon breaking camp first thing in the morning, every morning) but as many of you have pointed out, this election “season” provided me with no shortage of subject matter.  Better yet, each day I felt I was paddling towards you, my sometimes imagined, but often quite real, intimate audience.  Whether or not these 258 7-Eleven poems end up seeing the dark of print, between proper book covers, is unknown at present; but I’ve taken heart in your readership, in the moment, as we’ve moved our fragile little vessel forward in time.