The Inaugural

I was about to post an edit of this poem, but apparently editing a post after already posting it will not auto-save it for you, so that's my sign that dissing Alexander as much as I did was not worth anyone's time, including my own.

Frankford Avenue Suzuki Dealer . . .
11:30 AM spitfire cold, the kind that is
meant for walks and regrets,
walks through the neighborhoods,
a woman with a raspy voice and her pitbull
on a leash in the cold near the park
in Northeast Philadelphia.

Millions dine together in this morning.
Millions to understand the bottom rung.

Here's to you in your armored car
with symbolism with GMC pit crews nearby;
here's to your causing shouts and cries
when I just want a peace of mind--

responsible pull from Iraq; the poet
a failure and the follow-up, Lowery,
golden with the voice of age, the age
of desperation, not the age of love,
like the poet, who failed though
some got it and some didn't (Michelle?)--

Bust out of there. Same daymares
lurking around with same hopes and dreams.

Traffic lurkers, cops bent up like opiums,
the white hearse tailgating my silver ass.

There are those who don't know love.
Barthelme was my book at Burger King
while I waited and forgot about the pinstripe suits.
Old people came in like coffins nailed shut,
or lobotomies, or seizures past the point of shaking.

We will never make it, and their heads are pounding,
screaming, tribal chants, deadly chants.

Pops and pants and splits--the rips and roars
of exhaust over a dying nation, a blind neutrality.

But not every voice is silent, not every voice
is silent in its madness, in its cheering girth.

I hear a voice alright. I hear thee voice of a gun.
How many rainbows settle over us today? Where is mother?
Where is father? Grab the shotgun. The shells dusty and old.
How many suicides will there be today, by people who care and don't?