HISTORIC ELECTION MAY SIGNAL DEATH OF FLARF
Cynicism, sarcasm, irony and political outrage all up in air

From the offices of Flarf East Coast Headquarters on the ground floor of Bridge Street Books, Rod Smith and Melissa “Mel” Nichols watched the returns with a growing sense of concern and disbelief.

“This … can’t be happening … can it?” Nichols gasped as early results for Virginia trended towards Obama. In a post last summer, Nichols and Smith were voted the “only flarf people with soul.”

Smith choked back a sob: “What about Diebold?” he blurted. “Why isn’t my vote flipping?”

Earlier this year, Smith and Nichols moved from their apartment in Washington, DC, to a small shack in rural Virginia, banking on having their two votes for Sen. Obama flipped to Sen. McCain.

“Maybe it’ll flip before midnight,” Nichols said, letting out an exasperated sigh.

From a bunker in a cave outside of Ashland, Oregon, K. Silem Mohammad, recently hailed as the Abū-Nuwās of Flarf, gravely shook his head.

“His name rhymes with Iraq Hussein Osama,” Mohammad emphasized, absent-mindedly picking at the corners of the “Arab-American 4 Change” sticker he had affixed to his Penguin Classics edition of the Koran.

“Well, okay, ‘Hussein’ isn’t a rhyme, it’s a whaddayacallit … a perfect match. IRAQ HUSSEIN OSAMA. How can the American people be so utterly thoughtful as to overlook this?”

From one of three Flarf outposts in Brooklyn, New York, Gary Sullivan muted the Fox News report to frantically execute a series of Google searches.

“You know, I was concerned about this from the very first time I saw him,” Sullivan explained, “he’s got such a way with words.” Sullivan’s search, “Obama” + “Irish,” seemed to confirm the worst.

“Jesus Mary and Joseph,” Sullivan hissed through the foam of his fifth Guinness, before reading one of the returns: “‘A Church of Ireland rector scoured files from the church dating to the late 1700s, and confirmed that Obama descended from Moneygall, County Offaly.’ We’re about to elect a guy who might as well be named O’Bama.”

“County Offaly? Holy shit, he’s black Irish,” Michael Magee, who watched the returns from a McDooley’s Pub in rural Rhode Island, emphasized. “Our President is going to be a Muslim-educated African-American black Irish guy who grew up in Indonesia. It’s like the exact opposite of what would happen in one of my poems. Clearly Flarf needs some rethinking in the wake of this.” The phone rang; a condolence call from The Bay Area Society for Incomprehensible Book-Length Abstract Poems.

Sullivan’s partner, Nada Gordon, peered over Sullivan’s shoulder, scouring the Google returns. “He’s not a Jew, too, is he? This could be devastating not just for Flarf, but for New York Language Writing.”

Stan Apps, who watched the returns in Los Angeles, said he sent his absentee ballot in to Florida hours before the deadline, hoping to have it tossed in the round file, hopelessly riddled with hanging chads.

“They’re saying nothing about chads this year. WTF? What happened to the fucking hanging chads?!?”

“Hanging chads?” Ben Friedlander said. “What I want to know, is what happened to the Bradley Effect?”

The only Flarf poet in the state of Maine, which is still considered a stronghold of 90s post-Langpo lyricism, Friedlander voted early this morning, fully expecting to change his vote from Obama to McCain once the curtain was closed.

“I was positive it would happen,” Friedlander choked. “But I didn’t even hesitate. I voted for Obama. Unfortunately for Flarf—and maybe for all radical forms of living poetry, even some forms of abstract lyricism—it looks like that’s what most of Maine did as well.”

From their apartment in Harlem, Drew Gardner and Katie Degentesh listened to the cheering outside in horror.

“This is bad,” Gardner huffed, “very, very bad. If we begin to move from petroleum-based fuel to anything renewable, I’m worried not just for me, but for Roof Books, period.”

Degentesh snapped her iBook shut and held her head in her hands. “It’s like people in America are not insane religion-clinging racist motherfuckers anymore.”

“I predicted a post-Flarf phase last year,” Rodney Koeneke explained from the Flarf Portland office. “I mean, it’s terrifying. But I feel somewhat prepared going forward.”

In the Conceptual Poetry offices of Midtown Manhattan, Kenneth Goldsmith, Rob Fitterman, and Kim Rosenfield were paying special attention to the Senate races.

“It looked bad for a while there,” Fitterman admitted, “but I don’t think we’re getting 60.” A filibuster-proof Senate would have been a fatal blow to Conceptual Poetry, Rosenfield explained.

Goldsmith, whose most recent project involves hand-typing every English-language word ever posted to the Internet for an as-yet-untitled book to be published by The Figures, was jubilant. “I just got a call from Brent at SPD. Both Weather and Traffic were moving like hotcakes all day.”

Jordan Davis opened and read aloud a mass e-mail from Skanky Possum: “Just got off the phone with Kent Johnson. We’re predicting four, maybe even eight, really loooooooooooooooooong years filled with the sloooooooooooooooooooooowest poooooetry ever written. Goooooooooooooooooo Oooooooooooooooo baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”

“Maybe we need to focus attention off ourselves, and attack other poets devastated by this historic win,” Davis said, shutting his computer down for the evening. “I’m just thinking out loud, here, but maybe we have a future as comments field trolls in Ron’s blog, like, ‘you think you’re so special with your Socialist Review background—we’re all Socialists now, Mr. I’m So Special!’”

In an all-Flarf conference call following McCain’s concession speech, Maria Damon tried to revive her clearly devastated compatriots. “It doesn’t mean the end of folly as we know it,” she encouraged. “Just because Americans did the right thing for once, doesn’t mean they’re still not human beings.”

But Mitch Highfill and Sharon Mesmer were not convinced. “Mitch and I started this collaborative poem tonight, ‘Have Some More Health Care, You Voted For It, After All, You Citizens of This Working Democracy,’” Mesmer said.

“But it didn’t sound hollow or flarfy,” Highfill admitted. “It sounded like Maureen Owen.”