Once there was an orange faced man who tried to ruin our summer, intoxicate the fall, and euthanize the winter.

Fuck that, Cheeto.

You’re not the one. We can huff and puff too. Blow away the stains of the dusts of your lies. Post-post-truth is the new word.

In October, I wore a shirt in the desert utopia that said Fuck Hate and it felt like we really would. Your repelling ways would be gone. People of sex and color shook my hand and took my picture. United, we pledged to Fuck Hate, believing we really could. And then Roger Waters showed us an image of what that would take, how hard the fight would be, what it would look like when we lost. Trump was a pig that flew above us. Smokestacks spewed. I lost confidence. The desert fell to dystopia.

I wonder if there was a part of us doing the same thing on Election Day. Imagining that the unimaginable was about to occur. It was always in there. We just didn’t want to see it. Not yet.

Trump that bitch. Grab them by the pussy. Make America White Great Again! Lock her up! Build the Wall! Kick them all out! Torch the desert! Shut them up! Hang the bitch! Grab some more pussy!

This will never be normal.

I could only sleep or watch the news. Over and over and over again. Rub my eyes, make it all just a trick.

From the margin, someone whispered, welcome to the old fear. Will you stand with us?

I hope so. I want to.

With the lights out, it’s more dangerous. Here we are now, resurrect us.

It’s true. I do feel stupid. And contagious.

So here we are now, fool. Stuck in the middle of your Once Upon a Time and our Happily Ever After. Boo. Orange little man. You are weak. I hear you in the songs. I read you in the books. I feel this in my heart: We are ready for you.

Al Kratz

Al Kratz

Al Kratz is a writer living in Indianola, Iowa.
Al Kratz

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