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Sara Biggs Chaney

Ann Coulter's Letter to the Young Poets

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Dear Nation of Immigrants,

I call for a moratorium
on birth control hair cuts,
racist dog-whistles,
the melting north pole.

Morons and forcible rapists--
with their border town emergency rooms
& back alley abortions--
think their patience is everything.

They're not numbering or counting,
but ripening.

We must not be confused by surfaces,
like those liberals and klansmen,
neurotically obsessed with race.

Despite 250 million to the Muslim brotherhood,
We still hold the house of prejudice and arrogance.
We cannot piss away
our heat, thunder, restlessness.

Time to upgrade our roster.
Flood the ancient aqueducts
& unforgettable boulevards
with our halcyon malice.

Works Cited

Rilke, Rainer Maria. Letters to a Young Poet. Trans. Stephen Mitchell. <>

Ann Coulter, "Read My Lips: No New Amnesty" <>

Ann Coulter, Slander: Liberal Lies About The American Right <>

Ann Coulter's Speech before CPAC, March 17, 2013. <>

Ann Coulter Complains about Liberal Bias in the Media

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Considering the invective,
there is no surer proof.

The molecular opposite of Yale,
a flimsy argument.

Falsely, force,
claiming royal lineage.

We don't have any enemies
because we are going to kill them.

Isn't it more natural
To claim to be better than you are.

'Stupid' means one thing: self-righteous indignation,
fawning articles in the New York Times.

Why the evasions, if it weren't so conspicuous.
Instead they accuse Republicans of speaking in code words.

Oh media elite covering national politics,
Islamic terrorists in the quiver,

always wailing about their victimhood.
It proves absolutely nothing.

How wretched they are:

Showered with awards,
and logical counterarguments.

"The Best Quotes From Ann Coulter's Slander." Written by John Hawkins. Right Wing News. <>

On the Ford India Ad featuring Cartoon Kardashians Gagged and Tied in a Trunk Or, Super Khloe Frees Herself First

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Cartoon bosoms tap our hero's elbow in the dark. Code for wake up, you've got company.

You're here, our hero thinks. Her voice, the one she is not allowed to use, spasms a scream, a real rib-shaker.

I may have been drawn by an asshole, but at least I wasn't drawn alone.

The new girl, an unfortunate, tosses her face horse-wise in answer, tapping back: Hey. Hey you. Isn't this fucked up. Yeah, I'm here too.

She mewls fear & regret through a soaked rag:
I don't want to die a cartoon Kardashian.

Our hero feels her pain, but things are tough all round, and this trunk is too cramped for commiseration.

So she wakes her indomitable optimism & counts off her assets: a crowning ache, a mouthful of bile, & an unwearable bikini.

The odds: stacked. But a cartoon woman is a woman still, and every woman finds a latch on the inside.

The magician's broad schooled us early: For every trick box, a tiara. For every shit creek, white gloves.

Our hero recalls her lessons. Flail hard, now harder. Uproot the ball gag. Greet the world, mouth first.

With your wolf teeth, chew metal and tear up air. Trickle and sing down the path you cut. The prettiest gas leak they ever saw.

Released from Captivity in Cleveland, Gina de Jesus Gives A Thumbs Up To The Crowd

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May 8, 2013: Gina de Jesus comes home.
Mourners and celebrants engulf the moment
with belated gestures of protection:
A fierce, encircling arm. A lifted hand.

And Gina de Jesus, coated, hooded,
concealed, flanked
by secret service
and smiley-faced balloons,
raises her thumb for the camera.

Google American thumbs up. You'll find
Neil Armstrong, Borat, and the President.
Babies, in fatigues.
Someone who looks like Serena Williams,
but isn't, smiling hard through the trademark on her face.
Your grandma and mine, painted up for the big game.

Scroll through the pictures.
Grow used to the redundancy – enjoy it.
Thumb and face, thumb and face,
Old friends, sticking close out of habit
to tell a one-frame story–
evolution as full-frontal glee.

Now, notice. When Gina de Jesus lifts her thumb,
it rises alone, without the face's smug endorsement.
A camera seizes the anomaly in focused light:
A girl. Someone who was a girl.
Her face averted, hand raised,
thumb unfurling, rising
the way will rises, by inches and much less,
Asking what's left and answering: this.

Consider. How satirists and statesmen
favor the same gesture–the sign
of A-OK, ready for take-off, good to go.
In Iran, the sign of up yours, pal.
How the face's signature, the rubber stamp
of thumbly propaganda,
can usually be read both ways.

Finally, appreciate the difference.
Gina de Jesus–her face, shielded.
Only her thumb comes home,
a visitor no one expected,
not at such a late hour.

The sprout of a hard frost.
A sign of all that nearly wasn't,
but persists.

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