I am the last American, all my drink umbrellas made in Singapore. My factory in China has a view of a battleship and the brown sea and the bleeding sun and that is the last horizon I hope to view before I die.
I can see it from Santa Monica. I can see it just fine.
Still, is no one else concerned about the marginalization of the white male? No, I guess not. Still, I didn’t ask to be born this way, you know. It’s not my fault, the empires of suffering that were created for our welfare.
Forgive me, please. I, too, voted for the wrong candidate.
You act like you can see through me, but the truth is, you don’t even see me. I blend in with the melting snow. See this skin? That’s the color of the ghost of the Great White Hope. My complexion, pale like death’s horse. Heaven is hell inside me, that’s what they don’t get.
It always has been.
I made the mistake of believing in the illusion of progress. Now, I’m just another cracker with a stolen job. Yes, it’s true, someone must be poor – but who wouldn’t want to be rich and famous? Does anyone really believe the trick is being happy with what you have – that is, as opposed to getting what you want?
I am angry all the time because I am content with my desires. It’s the fire that molded the universe into the shape of a smart phone. Alas, no one reads my kind of poetry anymore – my rage is officially justified.