Dick Angler, Darth Vader, Evil Dick, Tricky Dick, Jr., Puppetmaster, Fuckoff Lad, Torture King—Dick, I’m not sorry that I laughed at the Mr. Potter crack when you were rolled out in a wheelchair on Inauguration Day the day you finally became a relic. Many stack you up to villains—forceful and dark and yet you are nothing but a trick—a curt, expressionless slab of white flab with a sickly heart determined somehow to stay within us forever. In all your stillness, you have no sense of peace. You with Bush on Ulrickson’s New Yorker cover in mimic of Brokeback the year you shot Whittington, the year after Katrina. To think Michelle Williams was in Dick the forgotten 1998 comedy about Watergate, and years later, the year we’d begin to put you to rest, she’d be caught by paparazzi on Smith Street looking frail, griefstricken shortly after the death of Heath her Brokeback co-star, her ex. How tragic, in the dearth of ick surrounding you and the years of your reign. In 2000, on the snowy TV, I watched you debate with criss-crossed legs and remembered nothing. In 2001, I watched “Survivor” and contestant Michael Skupkin breathed smoke, fainted into fire, burned his hands, and ran into the ocean, wailing. The skin peeled-back off his knuckles. All week, CBS played commercials: the most shocking “Survivor” ever. And I watched Skupkin evacuated by helicopter, fifth place contestant Elisabeth Filarski on the shore, longingly looking up, bandana round her crown. Soon she would have a voice on “The View,” pointing her finger out to the side, and defending your war, your party. In 2006, the poet polled the class, Who wants to write political poetry? No one. In the declaration year 2003, some poets constructed an anti-war chapbook but were soon worn out by their limitations, by the years of destruction and nothing. I watch you now, in the nine years that have passed since 2000, the TV louder, larger, the graphics bright and blaring, ticker tape, and I wish you would just give it up, fly-fish yourself off in Wyoming. You look worn, guilty as if sanded down by all of us and what ran through our wires: the mundane chitchat of all our hours.