the mythology of hope

Today I could hardly compose myself. Everyone around me brimming with abstraction, abstraction.

I sat on the vent when I got home to regain feeling in my numb toes. The hot air lifted around me like my lover's breath and I never felt so alone.

I found a penny beside the couch. Attached to it, every copper hope.

And I sent it by way of the furnace.

.smash.a.messaged.bottle.upon.this.keel.

Dear President Obama,

Forgive me for emulating so many current memes of letters to the president-elect-now-actual-for-real-president-of-this-country.
Also forgive my not voting for you.

But.

I didn't vote for the other guy. Actually, I voted for the other other guy, or one of them anyway. You might not have heard of him. or met him. I certainly haven't. But if you were to, I would hope that you have a fruitful discussion over an even more fruitful lunch. You would talk about many things, testing the waters of each other's pools of knowledge, and probing the finer points of pop culture inanity to break the ice.
I do it too.

But.

This isn't my confession, and I hope that your four long terms tied to the mast of this country isn't your confession. You will surely hear more than three siren songs beckoning you into the waters, as your crew paddles on with nothing but beeswax in their ears.
I can only venture a guess to what those melodies and harmonies will hold for you.

So before I mix my metaphors, you are not set asail for 10 years - merely a tenure - and that is remarkably little time to bail out this oversized rig. Let's not forget at least some of the finer points of your charter, and I'll forget that you still stand for the neo-colonial global hegemonic domination that I despise.

Let me just say that your ship runs a little to the center-right at the moment, and you should plot our path starward rather than further starboard.

I don't live under any illusions of your presidency, and don't really expect much from you.
Surprise me.
Take me to Serendib.