Four Years Of Knowing Who My President Is

It occurred to me suddenly that hasn’t yet declared itself in this round of the Great Race for the Presidency. No problem, this one’s easy. possesses a faith not readily shaken, and that faith remains deeply embedded in Dennis Kucinich. Carry on sir, with your duly appointed rounds of winning the presidency. We’ve got your back over here.

Also, I’m willing to throw my support behind this Esquire magazine article if it makes a bid for the vice-president spot. I hear that’s a good spot.

It’s Kucinich Time!

The pure products of America go crazy,” wrote William Carlos Williams — antipoet of “the thing itself” — but Dr. Williams was from north Jersey, and as far as I know never strayed to Cleveland, whose own pure products long have been flame tempered, union made, and born batshit insane. So when I tell you that Dennis Kucinich is first of all a sane, sane man, and secondly, fit to be president — and thirdly: It’s Kucinich time, now, because what this blue-balled, war-thwacked nation needs is not another scleroid corporate whore but a sixty-one-year-old vegan peacemonger, poor beyond corruption and honest as spit, hauling balls big enough to both choke Dick Cheney and keep a smile like a woozy kitten’s on the love-lit face of a twenty-nine-year-old heartthrob wife; and if not now, when? and if not Dennis, who? — when I tell you this hand over heart and cheek untongued, then it behooves me also to say that I am a son of the same crooked flaming river, Cleveland-born and -bred and unashamed.

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