Emigrant Songs – Osbie Feel
February 14, 2019
Various Online Perspectives of The 24 Hour News Cycle
I know their intent, I voted for them;
I go through their speeches,
enter the Hermeneutical circle,
derive all their meanings, find out who lobbied
whether or not they’re being racist,
or hate immigrants,
or know quantum computation,
The policy is secondary,
The final result is tertiary,
it’s only about how intent is presented,
and I am an expert;
I voted for them, trust me.
It’s nice to be in the know.
I know their intent, I didn’t vote for them
I go through their speeches
my exegesis is second to none
I know why they won
I cannot believe no one can divine
what awful things I find
in the most innocuous statements
the policy is primary and so is the final result
their intent is as well, because they intend to harm
It’s so nice to be in the know
Can you believe what happened?
I cannot understand what happened
so I will study it, every level
every step of the blockchain
if it later turns out
it didn’t happen
it still lays bare
that he didn’t handle the scandal
he must not even care
so why would you support them?
I’m in the know.
I find it deeply unsettling that
someone could have known about
these awful things, I just find it
so deeply unsettling. Does
anyone else? Someone should
Anyone, do something!
Listen to me about this,
I’m in the know!
The Irish Goodbye.
Listening, beer in hand
to the TV’s drone and bar’s backing band,
the winds of change blow from afar
unearthed tectonics breaking apart,
the fault opens wide, in spills the vote
halfhearted casting for shadow’s tropes
assuage the crowd, another lager!
to elect our next unholy father,
to cast one group’s insecurities
their fears, hatreds, and impurities;
to cast another’s confidence,
quick witted comebacks, and insolence;
to cast another’s intelligence,
historicizing and callousness;
to cast another’s deep seated hatred
violent passions and bitter contempt;
to cast another’s indifference,
nihility, and oblique irony.
The winds subside, the plates close shut
the votes are counted and counted,
and counted, and counted up.
Aftershocks occur across the nation,
in this ritual conversation,
new forms of discourse over nothing,
about those who hold you to not exist,
as background patrons pay their tab,
tip twenty percent,
and walk quietly to the nearest exit.