A Letter to Barack Obama

Dear Barack,

I wrote you this letter. Please tell me that it is pretty.
I have internal organs, Barack. Mine are just like
everyone else’s, except that they relentlessly clamber
over each other, just to get to you. You make my
organs feel like there’s a clambering horizon of shuffling
zombies underneath my skin. Oh my God, do you see
that over there? It’s a clambering horizon of zombies,
Barack, & they won’t be at rest until they chase an
unsuspecting protagonist into that old, abandoned
theme park. Barack, you are that reluctant hero, &
I want you to know that, even if this particular park
doesn’t have funnel cake or pinball arcades, I will
follow you. I really will. But first, I must be honest
with you: I don’t think I have the stomach for zombie
warfare. I am weak. But, I might not be so weak,
Barack, that is, if you like this letter. Look, I can’t
help but notice that your chest is rising & falling
at a rapid pace. I understand. Heavy breathing is
often quite beneficial. Shh, listen. Did you hear
that? The clock tower up on Haunted Hill just struck
twelve; it is now the witching hour in this spooky
place. Oh, Barack, I need some encouragement.
I’m sure that my lungs could coordinate a zombie-
smiting fire strike, if you ordered them to. I’m certain
that my spleen could slap itself around a 12 gauge
something or other, should it help you. I also have
it on good authority that my liver would totally
break its alliance with my pancreas, if you needed
my vote. All I am asking, Barack, is that you just
cut me a comfortable path through this reanimated
mess. Then we’ll be home free, man. Then we’ll go
somewhere, & get really high. Then we’ll marvel
at all the calm in the world. Yeah, then we’ll talk
about Andy Kaufman, & make pretend that we’re
actual authorities on that glorious son of a bitch.
Then I’ll start to laugh like hell, because that’s
apparently the way I want you to remember me.

Sincerely,
Ryan