Monday, February 20, 2017

tweet

February 2017, on Air Force One on his way to his first campaign appearance of the 2020 election in Melbourne, Florida.   The President ordered Twitter to remove the 140 character post limit on pain of a Twitter attack by the President himself.  This, despite the fact that 140 characters far exceeds the practical length of his attention span. 


#hashtag by absolutelybatshit   First term big success!  Big success, let me tell you.  Decided to finish early, start new campaign and win second term before weather gets too hot in Palm Beach.  Why wait when you’re ALWAYS A WINNER!  AM I RIGHT?  We replaced Obamacare, a disaster, a disaster, replaced with big, beautiful, cheap insurance for everyone, the best insurance, even for the women who lied about me, everyone except for lying Jim Acosta from CNN.  Maybe something happens to him.  I don’t know. Coal.  We brought it back.  Burning coal, high sulfur coal in the White House, Trump Tower, burning it in Air Force One.  Black and beautiful soot streaking Ivanka’s sexy hair.  Hair I wouldn’t mind getting entangled in even if she is my daughter, I’m just saying!  Tomorrow the failing NYT will print lies about that!  So unfair!  Speaking of black and beautiful, what about my favorite black Frederick Douglas?  Must bring him on board in the second term.  He can keep a shine on Pence’s cowboy boots, bring peace to Ferguson and other hellholes where the blacks live.  My beautiful white deplorables!  So white, so white.  So uneducated, I LOVE MY FOLLOWERS!!!!  Got them all good jobs, high paying jobs we took back from the Mexicans and Hispanics, three jobs for every man, woman and child, they can work around the clock, such hard workers, great jobs with beautiful benefits and they’ve got me to thank and no one else, no one else.  Thank me, uneducated white people!  Millions and millions of them are buying HD TV’s made in Indiana, season FCFF sky box tickets, Ivanka’s sexy clothes and shoes, God I love her strappy shoes, American made Boeing products.  Jailed Hillary, jailed Hillary, she’s in jail where she belongs, that’s what I’ve been told, I don’t know if it’s true, I think it might be true.  Disgraceful.  So unfair.  Maybe I’ll let her out.  Who knows?  Paul Ryan, I love Pauly, great guy, he’s like my half-brother, Paul Jong Il.  Maybe something happens to him in Malaysia or Wisconsin during the next term.  Maybe not.  I won’t have anything to do with it if it does happen, which it might or might not.  Job numbers are skyrocketing, sky high and we’ve only been in office four weeks and everybody’s got a job, kids, cripples, retards, seniors, LGBLT’s, your great-grandmother.  Everyone except tens.  Babes are exempt from work as long as they’re hot.   The crooked judiciary!  So crooked, so crooked!  Mexican judges!  The Ninth Circuit, a failure, lowest poll numbers ever!  Sally Yates, former interim AG whom I fired, maybe I’ll bring her back so I can fire her twice, so unfair, she’s a two, maybe even a one!  I wouldn’t grab her va-jay-jay with John McCain’s POW hand, let me tell you, I’m just saying!  Only tens for The Donald, somebody said that, it wasn’t me.  Obama left such a mess, just terrible, just terrible, what a mess, the coloreds are so lazy, so shiftless.  I didn’t say that, but someone evidently did.  Maybe we should have elected a hard working Mexican like Javier Bardem, then I could have deported him after the election on my new “You’re Deported” reality show on the Breitbart Channel which will soon be the only channel and you’re going to be able to get, but you’ll love it.  SOMEONE CHECK OBAMAS BIRTH CERTIFICATE, FAKE NEWS ALL OVER IT, I’M JUST SAYING.  Muslin ban roll out smooth as Ivanka’s high, tight round ass, even though it’s not a Muslin ban, maybe it is a Muslin ban, who knows?  Muslin, by the way, is way too scratchy.  We don’t use it in any of my 20 star Trump Hotels in Dubai, Moscow, Bejing, Jakarta, Manila, Riyadh, Pyongyang, Vegas, or DC.  I ordered all the sheets in the White House switched to 300 count linen, made in the USA by way of Uruguay.  Maybe something happens to Obama if he stays in DC, maybe not, who knows?  So nice to me during the transition, we keep in touch.  Michelle, that’s one classy lady, a class act, she could have been Miss Botswana in the 90’s when I owned Miss Universe, maybe I would have walked into her dressing room without knocking, who knows, no one to stop me, am I right?   Late night comedians, disgraceful, sad!  Alec Baldwin not funny! Melissa McCarthy not funny!  Sean Spicer, funny!  He kills, kills, so deadpan, so dry!  Failing SNL!  Failing NYT!  Failing John McCain!  Failing California!  The Wall is up and it’s so beautiful, so beautiful, terrazzo tile, Diego Rivera murals, food trucks!  I added some zero’s to Mexico’s check, it’s not illegal, not illegal, only a clerical error, clerical error, unexpected windfall so we extended it across the Gulf through Florida to Mar-A-Lago to screen off my Jew neighbors.  I’m not anti-Semantic but the Goldberg’s are so unfair, so unfair, just saying, smoke from the grill, Jew Hollywood swells blocking my drive.  Kicking off the campaign in Melbourne with my billions of beautiful followers screaming lock her up, lock her up, I don’t know where they got that notion, but they’re exercising free speech from one of the amendments or the Bible, maybe Leviticus paragraph 2 section 8.  Then it’s on to all the other poor white uneducated red places like Kansas, and Alberta, and Ukraine where I’ve never been, let me tell you, and have no business deals there at all just like I don’t in Russia, have any deals.  I’ll win the 2020 election big, yuge, even before the mid-term election, which I’ll win also by the biggest landslide ever, yuge margins, why wait, why wait, the country’s in such bad shape, running against Martin Sheen this time who was so untalented in The Dead Zone, so unbelievable, but the crooked media won’t report it, my big win, not Martin Sheen as a scary presidential candidate.  The media, so crooked, so crooked, they’re the enemy of the people, enemy of the people like ISIS, and hummus, and Black Lives Matter.  Gotta go, Bannon has some more of those Execution Orders for me to sign, I’ve got such a great signature, so loopy, so loopy, ordering White House press pass for Infowars, Alex Jones, so truthful, so truthful, 911 was an inside job, someone told me that, I don’t remember who, gave me that information, then I’m going to undress Ivanka with my big beautiful eyes which are not at all beady in the least.  Steven Miller, Steven Miller, Steve Miller, so great, so sane, so beautiful, I loved The Joker, that’s why I brought him on board, not just because he’s a craven sycophant who talks almost as loud as me except when I’m talking really soft like soft pillow talk on Bill O’Reilly.  I’m going to make him and Sean Spicer sing a duet at the next briefing, Steven Miller not O’Reilly, love that shake your peaches line and that guitar part that sounds like New York City construction workers hooting on Ivanka walking past in a short, tight skirt, so great, so great.  More later, Reince has my pills, the ones that make my brain stay big and good and there’s a Russian Navy armada off Palm Beach.   

Wednesday, February 1, 2017

winter morning

All Your Secrets

What better time to tell me all your secrets
sitting by this window on the old dowagers
across the street, sure hand of dawn lifting
charcoal night to block in shapes of snow
covered roofs wreathed round by neural
bundles of trees piped with winter plaque,
ampules of porch light casting amber cones,

flare of first rays gilding eaves in gold leaf,
a shared delight to set the mood and loosen
your tongue, elevate the conversation beyond
soft intimations of endless settling, muffled
tick and creak from places deep within
you and me, distinctions blurred over time,
walls that could conceal brittle yellow

broadsheet reporting bi-partisan opposition
to the League of Nations and fears of a second  
outbreak of Spanish influenza, a foundation
balanced lightly on the head of a buffalo
nickel pressed into place by a superstitious
man who needed the money or a time capsule
rolled in oil skin tucked inside a copper box

packed in rock wool caged behind lathe,
curious secrets that sleep on while mine rouse
to internal revelries and emerge glistening
from fold and cleft to form up for the march
to the front, keeping cadence as one voice
faint but unmistakable, a sound you dismiss
as nothing more than wind, as friends will do.