A self-anointed socialist
labeled this Cuban son of immigrants a fascist simply for wearing his favorite pair of loafers;
a single pair I have owned for many years.
His sweater was Carhartt like his reverend Fetterman,
his patched and tattered trousers ‘Dee-yor-ay,’ as he pronounced them
and his shoes,
scuffed, perhaps every other morning,
with the hammer and sickle he keeps in the tank of his toilet;
before oiling his thinning curls of hair with some soy product attributing to the deforestation of the Amazon, more than likely,
eating avocado meat around the seed while burning capitalism with his iPhone
all while cosplaying as the fetishised poor, poor man he had no idea he already was;
or ‘Un-fuckable,’ which I retorted
after being labeled the everyman Mussolini
by a most pious, noxiously all-knowing Che
(‘That’s what I want the curls to be serving’).
Even cosplay has its repercussions, Comrade, I suppose
that’s the message we’re making clear:
for all funded fashions and ad hominem attacks made towards my sweet and sensitive soles,
the moment your virtuous mind erupts over a heard idea contrary to your own,
you become the very thing you’ve condemned me of being.
…Comrade, quick point of privilege,
may I suggest you review your indoctrination leaflet?
You may have misread a couple points. And you might just be a little scared of a world that has never been better.
Your Cuban (and fuckable) libertarian
(most of the time; you know my thoughts on the administration and their lack of action towards East Jerusalem, Ohio).