POLITYPOP

A common problem for today’s progressive parents is explaining racial intolerance to their young ones, especially when it applies to a family member. Does one sugarcoat it and thus insulate them from the very real problem of prejudice? Or should one be blunt, inviting the inevitable ‘children say the darndest/most divisive things’ moment at Thanksgiving dinner? Well, father and Politypop contributor Patrick Vogelphol’s new e-book, FYI: Great Grandma is a Racist tackles this

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Senior class president? I’ll vote for Mitt.

All the girls think he’s cute and

he’ll help anyone with econ.

He drives his dad’s sick Mercedes

to lacrosse practice, and he says

he can lower the cost of the prom.

But then there’s Ricky Jesus.

That guy has no shot at winning.

We started calling him that in

English after his parents sued

the school so he didn’t have to

read Inherit the Wind.

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Do not object when I say that this

adjective describes you perfectly.

You sometimes look up, or right, up again,

while I do all of the legwork, the focusing,

making sure the periphery is clear and

coordinating with the smile to maximize

our time talking to pretty women before

you scare them to the other side of the bar.

You are John Adams complaining about

Hamilton and the Philadelphia heat while

I, Jefferson, spend all weekend drafting and

revising the Declaration of Independence.

You are Bill, so happy with your golf,

your new vegan diet and fun new book while

I, Hillary, persuade North Korean

back channels to keep missiles out of the sky.

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To many liberals and some centrists, Rick Santorum is the devil. Inexplicably, Staff Poet Patrick Vogelpohl wrote a prose poem that makes him seem human. No one asked Patrick to do so. He just did. Politypop will forward him your hate mail.

 Jason Reed/Reuters

Santorum

Forget, just for the length of this piece, the froth. Forget the vice principal sweaters.

He’s in a Missouri high school gym, blinking. Eating ice chips to stay focused on a supportive Korea vet lecturing him on tax reform. Coffee making his stomach a constant source of misfire.

In his head, he’s off the borrowed private plane, in a car, and taking home his sick little girl.

 Trisomy goddamn 18. Pneumonia. Her own lungs worked against her.  

He is changing lanes, taking the off-ramp and parking. He’s put her in a bath. He’s smelling the Johnson and Johnson’s in her hair, anticipating the deep, wet cough.

I’d kill someone to never hear it again.

In his head, she sleeps on his chest. The vet drives home a point about welfare with a bony digit.

FlynetPictures.com

Beane (Pitt)

Maybe the generous analogy is Moneyball. Mr. Pitt’s almost-quixotic GM, theoretically near termination, is stonefaced as he crosses over the Bay Bridge. As he navigates freeways. As he trucks towards Visalia. His pitch for OBP getting weaker with each loss. Hoffman’s Art Howe preventing him from ending alchemy.

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With each passing day, the campaign trail becomes a less and less pleasant place. Personal attacks and personal business made public. This volatile climate has inspired Patrick Vogelpohl, Politypop’s very own staff poet, to reach out to the frontrunner in the form of an open poem.

You’re chasing a stupid job, bossman.

Red tape like streamers

shooting from the walls and ceiling

like a bad office birthday soiree—sit at your desk

and you can’t see the couch.

Not even a lateral move. Just a title.

And now the company wants to

look at the fat, sassy mouse from Georgia?

The guy forced into retirement?

More wives than Big Love?

Let the bastards have him.

Forget the interviews, the handshakes,

the presentations, all the jabs from

every mouthbreather with a tumblr.

You’re an earner. You get the Glengarry leads.

Take the missus back to Belmont.

Or head up to New Hampshire with

the boys, their wives, their kids.

Get snowmobiles for the whole damn family

Head into the fresh powder happy. Smart.

Your smile made permanent, the engine the only 

noise as you dash north into the white.