So I'm going to read a few poems that
are, maybe, in that spirit.
The first poem I'm going to read--
it's a hard thing to think about which
of the people in our current government is the worst.
[LAUGHTER]
It's quite a task once you start thinking.
They've all got their demerits, for sure.
And they all seem to lower themselves to the occasion,
in turn.
So every day, you can convince yourself
that somebody's the worst.
I mean, Trump doesn't count because you
have to be a human being to be eligible.
[LAUGHTER]
But in this case, I think, for me,
the person who really is, consistently, the most odious--
although his effectiveness has been lessened somewhat--
is Paul Ryan.
I find him just creepy beyond belief.
And so there were times when I was writing
this book when I felt very angry like I'm sure a lot of us have.
I'm making all kinds of presumptions
about the politics of the people in this room,
and I do not ask for forgiveness for that.
[LAUGHTER]
But, anyway, I was interested in what
would happen if I let that anger direct me into poetry.
Anger is not an emotion I ordinarily
associate with poetry, or good poetry,
but there are exceptions in my own poems, for sure.
And so I was like, what would happen if I just let my fury
and my aggravation just direct the poem
and then almost exhaust itself.
What would happen?
So that's this poem, which I will read to you now.
"Paul Ryan."
[LAUGHTER]
"Paul Ryan, your name so perfectly combines
New Testament, righteous purity with American, white, immigrant
self-pity.
It must have been invented in some brushed, metallic
building, the exact color of despair.
You could walk right past and never see.
Where sad ghosts think all day about the most efficient way
to eat light.
They know we need it.
It could be used to power every black box, every machine.
The ghosts don't want to eat the light but they must.
They work for immense demons.
Paul Ryan, you do too.
Many years ago, they filled you with the carefully harvested
breath of emptied factories then grew your house.
Its pretend love and grim commotion,
and the slow, imperceptible, drip of ideology,
contaminated your blood, until you actually
thought your struggles and success were real.
So your job was to put on your red hat,
and go into the world to tell us what is, by nature, just.
And only vast forces are real.
And even a slight compassion flicker
is just a selfish desire to seem unselfish.
And maybe you're right.
There can be no more pure water.
We are defeated and must accept immortal drought.
But I don't know.
It seems, to me, the dark triumph,
that animates your tragic corpse, drinks hate.
So I will not drink it.
Paul Ryan, I love you.
I kiss your dry lips to defeat you.