Eat Shit and Die, Fascists!

This is a handful of poems I wrote earlier today, 11/6/24, in response to the election. "Turn me into gunpowder when I’m gone."   Turn me into gunpowder when I’m gone, or something else useful.   Turn me into soap or fertilizer or flowers.   Why do I feel such a need to be useful even in death?   Why did I think of that before considering that I might not die?   We all fucking know why.   …