i'm going to stop talking to you now

i'm not going to talk to you anymore
because you expect me to be violent with you
and write love letters to your sister
i'm going to stop talking to you now
in the hope that your sister will talk to me
and make plans with me to be violent with you
i'm going to go to new york city
to be a violent person because everyone is violent in new york city
i will go to new york city and stop talking to your sister
because she wants you to move away from these thoughts
and stop pressing backspace or delete on the keyboard
or even hesitating for a second or less about what you type
i will leave new york city and hunt for bears in the woods
because they eat salmon which i have not had in several months
and because i do not like to eat salmon, but i can pretend
it is you or your sister i will be eating
i am going to leave the woods and go back to new york city
because there are bears in central park
that do not eat salmon, but who may eat you or your sister
so that i can always taste the two of you being violent with me

Cheeseburger from McDonald's

"This poem is like a cheeseburger from McDonald's," I say
while eating a cheeseburger from McDonald's
and reading a poem that reminds me of a cheeseburger from McDonald's
titled "Cheeseburger from McDonald's"
when I put down my cheeseburger from McDonald's
and look over at the cheeseburger from McDonald's
in the hands of my friend, who's eating her cheeseburger from McDonald's
while reading a newspaper with an advertisement offering a cheeseburger from McDonald's
and another cheeseburger from McDonald's for $1.00
(just $1.00 for a cheeseburger from McDonald's
and another cheeseburger from McDonald's),
then past her to someone else eating a cheeseburger from McDonald's
with their fat son eating his cheeseburger from McDonald's
and someone else (a skinny Asian guy, it looks like from here) getting on line to order a cheeseburger from McDonald's
(perhaps just to look at the cheeseburger from McDonald's
with his vegan girlfriend standing next to him, who like him would never eat a cheeseburger from McDonald's);
my friend finishes her cheeseburger from McDonald's,
I finish my cheeseburger from McDonald's,
and we leave.

for my republican friends

Bill checked his suit for lint and stains one last time.
He picked up his notebook, with "DEBATE NOTES" handwritten on the front cover, and flipped through.
Everything was there the way he wanted it to be.
He left his apartment and got on the bus to the auditorium.
He flipped through the notes at varying speeds while the bus rattled down the street.
A friend of his in dress uniform waved out of the corner of his eye after a couple minutes.
"So you're going?"
"Yeah, it sounded like I'd get a chance to hear something interesting," Bill said.
"But it's all bullshit, it's the same thing we all hear in our one-hundred poli-sci class."
"Of course Tom, these people don't know anything. They just read the Saltman Dissent and figure that's good enough to get into bed with someone."
"You're never gonna change anyone's mind. No one wants to admit Satan exists."
Bill smiled. "I may get lucky some day."
The bus stopped at the ROTC building and Tom got off.
Bill kept reading his notes.
At the next stop about a dozen hippies and a couple of women in hijab got on.
They stopped talking for a second when they saw him, then started talking again.
Everyone got off at the main hub and walked to the auditorium, avoiding the potholes in the pavement.
The three dozen students there chatted amongst themselves.
Bill sat in the corner looking at the notebook.
The speaker entered the room.
Everyone clapped.
The speech went the way Bill expected, a lot of apologist whining for the Squigs.
They'd evolved a lot like humans (the woman claimed), even in their physical needs (oxygen, water, and heat), but without our disease immunities and resistance to our pollutants; and therefore purposely filling our ships with Manhattan air to be vented into the atmosphere on touchdown was unforgivable slow genocide.
The Squigs had "religions" like a lot of human religions, with alien visitors prominent in several of them like in human tribal religions, even coming from the same stars as the human tribes believed their alien visitors arrived from, suggesting shared history despite physical and cultural differences.
Their planet ("Bellone," not some unpronounceable Squig whistle) was rich in resources, and by looking at the papers leaked to Daniel Saltman, it was obvious that the stories about Squig "atrocities" were UNCRE propaganda to justify the occupation.
The conclusion was that we had to stop the war, because war is bad, or some other hippie thing.
Bill partly listened.
The speaker said, "Thank you for listening, I'd like to take questions from the audience now."
Bill raised his hand.
An usher handed him a microphone and he stood up.
"What about Monday the 16th, when the Squigs attacked all our hospitals, isn't that the kind of thing you're accusing us of doing to them?"
"That attack was sponsored by rogue elements within our own government, that particular point was covered halfway through the speech, and I'd thank you not to refer to the [whistle] as 'Squigs.'"
The crowd grumbled.
"Yeah, that was revealed by Saltman; did you know he's got a multi-million dollar movie being made about it?"
"What are you talking about?"
"I think you know."
The crowd started getting noisier.
An usher took away the microphone.
Everyone shut up, but they kept frowning through the rest of the half-hour Q&A period.
Finally it was over, and everyone applauded politely, then left talking to each other.
Bill pushed through the crowd and overheard a couple of the women in hijab talking about him.
"You've got to respond to that kind of bigotry and ignorance with outrage."
The other woman didn't respond, she just looked angry.
Bill got outside and got on the next bus.
Everyone left him alone.
He opened up his notebook again.
Everything in it was either badly-drawn pornography or "FUCK YOU, SQUIGGLY" in some variation of the phrase.
He pissed people off so they'd respond to him.
He was happy.

dissenting viewpoint

He woke up strapped to a chair. His head felt mangled.
"Spencer, you woke up. Good for you!"
Daniel kicked the chair over and kicked up through the seat, hitting Spencer in the balls. Two men pulled the chair back upright.
Spencer coughed.
"Yeah, I'm up. What the hell?"
"The fuck you talking about? What did we agree to?"
"You gave me all the rocks you had on yourself. That's it."
"Don't start playing dumb with me. You saw this coming-- what's the rest?"
"I'd... pay you on Friday, I didn't have any money then. Let me get my dad's credit card. You take American Express?"
Daniel kicked Spencer over again and nailed his balls another few times. He got pulled up again.
"What's it called? 'Insult to injury?' Shit's corny."
"I didn't say it."
"What day is it?"
"Let me get my day planner out."
"It's Saturday, dickhead. And where's my money?"
"Hold on, I'm getting a vision."
"Cause it's not in my pocket, my boys-- y'all don't have it, do you? No. I should have known better. Should have known you wouldn't have any. Cause you're a shitty liar, that scar above your eye twitches when you lie."
Spencer sighed.
"You're right. I stole from you, I didn't pay you off."
Daniel pulled out his gun.
"And you know I got a reputation to keep. You knew exactly what was going to happen, that's how you 'came up with' that corny shit to say. Probably knew I was gonna say this."
"Yeah, I did."
"Couldn't just pull the trigger yourself?"
Spencer shrugged.
"Well, no more Bruce Willis Sixth Sense shit for you. You wanna see dead people, just look in the mirror, if you can still see when you die."
Daniel shot Spencer. His last thought was, Bruce Willis didn't see dead people.