Jonathan Sinibaldi

 

Whiskey and Politics

 

 

Wetted with the beginning of Blinded by the Light, you, Dante, will bind

 

that tale into the score of blonde chicken, mandolin vandals and horny whores. Man

 

was meant

 

to sweat and kill his idols.  But the usual usuals

 

by scouring their existence in other flowers,

 

rape Nature and her followers.

 

But come on, it was my birthday,

 

the vodka turns, and the whales lie over Cairo,

 

shivering low on the bus line,

 

that runs the scar we all know,

 

down the dark painting, into the laughter below.

 

Oh Dante, will you ever learn?  These words

 

mean nothing, like weird people

 

who are all doing a sociology project,

 

whose picture frame calculations in Volkswagens dries me

 

more than the politicians who eat my flesh,

 

 and discuss their similes

 

and metaphors while replacing my guitar strings, telling me

 

“Come on kid, smoke cigarettes look like an adult.”