Voting is our Super Power

artist: Gayle Kabaker

We have empowered a man who worships at the altar of money, pleasure & putting others down.

A leader who says that cutting down trees is the answer to forest fires; who grabs married women & pubescent girls by the pussy as the prerogative of a dick and his pocketbook; who treats flesh & marriage & family, like he does this nation and our planet–as commodities; and for whom facts are irrelevant because he can spit & spout & spin in any direction –pointless, heartless, dangerous–because others want permission to be a toddler too, belly forward, pointing at whatever they want: “Mine. Mine! MINE!”

In bed with the NRA, foreign powers & prostitutes is the price you’ll pay so that every fetus has a chance, while children are shot at home by siblings every day, and students by their classmates, and women by their partners, and all across the country families struggle & suffer not quite white enough, privileged enough, healthy enough to play the game.

“It’s hard,” a business owner told me. “The taxes have gone up so much.”

I was sitting in his cafe, 2016, sipping coffee, eating lunch.

“I don’t know if I’ll make it,” he said, explaining why he preferred candidate Trump to the woman whose face and waistline and demeanor did not lend enough pleasure particularly when combined with her preternatural place of power not to mention a voice that grated.

Later, I told a young friend about the cafe where I had enjoyed a good sandwich, to which he nodded:

“That’s the guy with the cool collection of Jaguars.”

There was the homeless man I met on the streets of Albany at the Bernie rally with the brand new MAGA hat over his head of white hair.

“The dollar menu at McDonald’s is always shrinking,” he said.

I was astounded to see him again, more than a year later, on the waterfront in Troy. He came to sit down beside me, his hat crumpled and dirty but still on his head.

“Things are much worse, aren’t they?” I wanted to say, but I didn’t have the heart.

“They’re not making it easy on him,” he said, seeing in #45 himself, instead of the guy who worked the system, cheated others, rose above them, not by leading or caring, but by standing on their backs.

For many of my friends and acquaintances, it was/is/will always be:

“Her Emails. Benghazi.”

Or simply, as if she was a flavor of ice cream, instead of a person:

“I just don’t like her.”

More places, these, to duck while our debt increases, our goodwill fades and planetary heat and hate crime rise.

Absolve yourself by voting, by getting others to do so too, in the direction that assumes the responsibility of a nation to whom so much has been given, and from whom so much hope is gleaned around the globe.



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