I manage my fantasy baseball team better
than I manage my anger these days,
and I’d trade my best pitcher
for a draft-pick and picture
of the president writhing in pain.
It’s a weird thing to wish for
but I can’t stop wishing,
refreshing the browser, someday
if I live long enough
and the world doesn’t end
my wish will come true, in a way,
and he’ll die like we all die,
in pain or asleep,
and we’ll still have our fantasy baseball,
and the next fascist fucker in line for the job
of demolishing hope for us all.
So I’m putting in love now,
I’m putting in faith,
putting fear on a long-term IL.
I’m going outside,
I’m going to help organize