Enjoy a new column we are trying out: a Sunday poem. This one is brought to you by Miami writer Timothy Schmand, a local gem.
Feel free to listen and read a long.
Or just listen. Enjoy!
Timothy Schmand
U.S. out of North America!
Declared a bumper sticker from my youth.
The strident font, bent forward under history’s weight, became
both man and woman, caked and sooted with grime and blood.
Smelling of shit and sweat and shit.
Hair, bound by mud and desire, piled atop a worry-scarred-face.
Rocking foot to foot. (One bare/One swaddled in bloody rags.)
Hands cupping their mouth/Crying to the passing traffic.
U.S. Out! U.S. OUT! U.S. OUT OF NORTH AMERICA!
Raise your fists. Say it with me!
U.S. Out! U.S. OUT! U.S. OUT OF NORTH AMERICA!
Jesus, Timmy, calm down.
Why the drama?
Calma Calma
Look at you. You are “THE MAN.”
Not by effort, but by birth.
White
Male
Old
White
Male.
Where do you get this shit?
This shit? WHERE DID I GET THIS SHIT?
Tarpon Springs, Florida — since you asked.
The Hampton Inn
Highway 19 — so U.S. Fucking A.
Midwest women wearing outfits.
Oufits?
You know — outfits — shorts matching shoes matching blouses matching earrings matching purses matching husbands; smugly grazing the complimentary breakfast. (which was actually quite good toast/English muffins/oatmeal/a waffle maker/endless coffee refills before eleven) They were all so nice and sweet as they set about Making America Great Again.
