Election poetry.

Like water, this division
this contrition unites.
Rolling over our best efforts
to remain with hearts.
Our eyes brought contention,
to be silenced in part
by Their ongoing, internal
concatenation.
Their diversion from accepted
tergiversation.
They bow down and worship
the god of the downtown,
the dot-com and Broadcast,
and partisan common.
(While Rome is on fire,
Nero is plucking his briefcase violin)
Ideas retreating from radio waves
it vomits, consumes it's pale renegade.
A nuclear family, A bastard son story,
The Singularity born, concrete matrimony.

The justice of doctrinal peace,
began to speak the benediction for
the wedding feast.
"If anybody has reason, or cause to conspire
for these not to be wed,
(the white house, and wall street,
sharing a bed)
Speak up good and loud
for in such a loud crowd,
it's difficult to see whose jaws are not wired"
And with that the two gave birth to a son,
the hive mind, the media the North Avenue slums.

Objection, an act of sedition.
And the red emperor passes
his baton to the next martial god.
Who, although dressed in blue,
returns the wink and the nod.
The donkey is walking with the carrot hung
just in front of its face. This is your god, this is your god.
The temples built 45 stories to heaven, to shield.
The skies advertising space. Campaigns purchased
the last hole punched in the card,
a generation of prosperity,
a generation of censorship.
a generation of control.
America, you may kiss the bride.