_ _ _ _ _ ‘_ Mar-a-Lago has three bomb shelters,
one for the immediate family,
one for the club members
and one for the help:
resume the Town Car to the golf course
once the mushroom cloud disbands,
but refill both pools
The cloister of old Dominican nuns
at Our Lady of the Rosary Shrine
reports a huge surge of applicants
since the election of Donald _ _ _ _ _,
launching a $4 million campaign
to break ground in mid-2017
on a new wing to the monastery—
in addition to more living space,
a peaceful sanctuary for visitors
to encounter God’s mercy and love.
I suggest a wing for monks as well.
It isn’t fair to leave all us men
hanging out to dry in _ _ _ _ _’s wind
while women seclude themselves
behind veils of prayer and piety—
and unfair to ask us to pay for it!
We need those women out here
helping us fight the forces of evil
on the physico-political plane.
God already knows how we feel.
Let visitors encounter God’s wrath—
then march back out into the fray
more determined than ever
to drive the Republican swine herd
over the precipice and into the sea!
Or invite the _ _ _ _ _ Administration
to come and bathe in God’s mercy.
Usher them into the new wing,
lock the door, and pocket the key
until fucking mercy drowns them!
I’m sure prayer’s well and good—
but no substitute for activism.
_ _ _ _ _ would like nothing better
than Democrats down on their knees
in the Rosary Shrine, leaving him
and the rest of the Republicans
to run roughshod over the nation.
$4 million worth of new prayer
isn’t going to stop them, sisters!
Get up off your kneelers and fight!
A lot of people have low self-esteem because they really
aren’t nice at all,
while it’s usually the really nice people who have the
and the ghastliest people who have the most overblown
view of themselves.
You and I are among the latter. We think we’re superior to
and that gives us a right, if not the obligation, to treat them
We’re ghastly also to each other, but it’s a ghastly
competition of equals.
Imagine how little the _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ has to like about his
shitty, ugly, venal self.
Imagine what it feels like to spy over your own wife’s
shoulder on Nov. 8th
to check whether she’s actually voting for you or smug
Buckingham Palace’s famous Changing-of-the-Guards guards are guarded by ordinary soldiers packing heavier armaments.
Ordinary American soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan are protected by the civilians of mercenary security contractors.
The gung-ho figureheads and charlatans of the District of _ _ _ _ _ _ _ will have to be pig-herded by undocumented aliens.
That beloved all-American _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ flavor is an alliance of the two key characterizing chemicals in bananas and strawberries: isoamyl acetate in bananas, and ethyl methylphenylglycidate in strawberries.
Both are used in artificial and in natural forms that also taste artificial due to their one-dimensionality, but along with secret ingredients added for rounder taste, instantly recognizable as _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _.
Myriad sweetening agents in _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ also distinguish each brand from its competitors. There’s cane sugar, beet sugar, corn syrup, xylitol, sorbitol, mannitol, maltitol, aspartame, stevia, and sucralose.
Additionally, there is the different packaging, such as Bazooka’s tiny, tightly folded cartoon panels or the Topps sports-player cards accompanying the flat, rectangular, pink, sugary, plank of _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _.
Ever get a wad of chewed _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ tangled in your hair? Fuggedaboutit. You can massage it with soybean oil and try to comb it out until the cows come home—but the whole pile just grows uglier and uglier.
I have _ _ _ _ _ _ by the short hairs.
It thought he had the jump on me, but I lured him into my
and jubilation, his ass was mine!
Or is it possible _ _ _ _ _ _ duped me into letting him into my
to flop his butt around in there—
that he has me by the short hairs?
Maybe I ought to welcome _ _ _ _ _ _, be friends with him.
He relished me enough
to move in with my Manhood and administer the
We have each other’s short hairs.
No one will be bailing out.
_ _ _ _ _ _ and I together will co-pilot this jalopy into the wild
Strip-search at the Pearly Gate—
“What’s that crumpled in your cup?”
St. Peter closely peers at _ _ _ _ _ _, yawns, then quickly
“_ _ _ _ _ _’s not welcome here, the HQ of Eternal Bliss,”
“You may be friends with benefits,
but now it is time for fond farewell.”
I shake my head, refusing. _ _ _ _ _ _ shakes
those last few drops of urine from my lazily-muscled penis
God casts us, tandem, into Hell.
Satan yanks my zipper tightly up
and dumps us without ceremony in the elevator back to
“O _ _ _ _ _ _, we missed you!” his fans lament.
Up creeps a whitefaced mouse.
It wipes faux _ _ _ _ _ _ off its lips, deleriously grins at him,
and harshly squeaks at me: “Go fuck yourself.”
No one calls the new First Lady
“a Coronation Street s_ _ _ _ _ _ _
of dirtily seductive impudences
and divulgèd shames”—no one
except maybe Celina Midelfart.
Rather, Melania’s your average
New York East-side trophy wife
who extracted her 8 1/2 pounds
of flesh to augment her pre-nup.
Even antecessor Marla Maples
toots her clarinet and _ _ _ _ _ _ _s
Melania’s praises: her half-wife
in the extended Mormon family.
The White House might sprout
new North and a South Wings.
Tangled succession bloodlines
will have to be officially posted
on the firstfamily.gov webpage.
What exactly was our
early _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _?
Three quarters inattention.
Sure, we drove around
and laughed with friends,
drank more, fucked more,
and it was you and me
and our romantic vows
against the world.
But is there any chance
we genuinely loved
we took the plunge
and traded all that in for
grownup _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _,
discerning who he truly was,
good, bad or ugly
as it might have been
and choosing to esteem
with open eyes?
That pleased him more.
I stand here in the bedroom
and I see the _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _’s body
and I think, “She’s dead.”
I stare at her empty chair and bed.
I lost my beloved friend.
What you lost, daughter,
may be very different,
and it’s possible the aches we both feel
are a few shards of one central ache
that she lies suffering,
somewhere, right now.
I doubt the _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ smiles down.
Life was no bed of roses for her.
No post-mortem wisdom
can correct that,
and we aren’t with her anymore
to make her laugh or help her cry.
It may be best to wish her
neither ache nor joy but just surcease—
no boy calling you some foul name,
no one sick,
no fear of turning on the news.
You see her sitting right here
with her silly purple muumuu on?
That’s not at all denying
that she died.
It’s part of what she was
that hasn’t gone.
There’s part of me that really feels like
she’s in L.A. for the week.
And there are people everywhere
who haven’t heard she died.
They think the _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
is still right here in Butte.
So go to bed, it’s been a dreadful month.
Tomorrow, if you want,
we’ll drive back for a quiet visit
to the _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _’s grave.
Or hoof it: take the Grizzly Trail,
then cross the Silver Bow
on Santa Claus
and through the hills to Williamsburg.
Could make a day of it.
I’m here for you.
Then we could eat at Matt’s
and take a taxi home.
If you have questions—anything—
she already knows they aren’t
any stupider than mine.
The forecast is for sunny skies.
the _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ always said
a day on foot out in the hills
would do a body good. Perspective.
Yes, a maybe is just fine.
I might feel differently tomorrow too.
Might not get out of bed at all,
_ _ _ _ _ _ insisted the middle initial he loved to use
be enunciated “Ah—short a for Alexandra—
Dina Ah Smirnova—not Dina Ay Smirnova.”
I always laughed like it’s the first time.
Were it his single quirk,
I might have agreed to be his wife-in-waiting.
But he was grandiose in front of microphones,
dressed up a bit too colorfully, and fell for flattery.
He was flabbergasted at my nyet.
He didn’t fully comprehend that I’m a blend-in type
and never wanted to attach myself that way
to someone so determined to make gossip waves.
My rejection landed hard, and in a week he fired me
as his “super-amazing, best, best side piece!”
But his sense of humor never altered—
his final DM, “Ay-dios! Your _ _ _ _ _ _.”
I, Donald Trump
Prime Minister Nawaz Sharif, you have a very good reputation.
_, _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _, am ready to play every role that you want me to play
to address and find solutions to all outstanding problems.
Feel free to call me, even before my inauguration on January 20.
You are a terrific guy. You do amazing work, which is visible in every way.
Your country is amazing with tremendous opportunities.
Pakistanis are one of the most intelligent peoples.
_, _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _, hope to visit your fantastic country of fantastic people.
Please convey to all the Pakistanis that they are truly amazing,
and that all the Pakistanis known to me are exceptional people.
the little black boy in the hood is playing
with a toy dinosaur on the bus
then looks out the window
& sees the _. _ _ _ _ _ _,
the spitting image of his father
a neighborhood of royal
_. _ _ _ _ _ _
children of slaves & immigrants & exiles
funny yet commanding black girl buddy-cop
grandmas on the front porch
with guns they hid in walls & under mattresses
& Cicely _. _ _ _ _ _
the city with a black fist afro pick
through the dinosaur’s long cold-blood
& extinction can’t be about _. _ _ _ _ _ _ pain
can’t be about a long history with hurt
nigga in this movie
can’t say it to my face in public
in the heroes
(Danez Smith “Dinosaurs in the Hood,” trumpified cento)
-28°C, turtle dove
in a thorn pear
outside the window,
looking so calm,
as if not even
its eyeballs were cold,
only two short days
until _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
execute his office.
Marble_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ Methodist Church
found an 118-year-old time capsule
in the cornerstone.
Two sepia newspapers,
The Messenger, July 12, 1898,
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _lined
“Santiago Bombardment Begins,
Campaign Plan Agreed Upon,
Adm. Sampson _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _s the Attack”
and Christian Advocate, July 14,
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _lined
Christ, whose glory fills the skies,
Christ, the true, the only light.
Two cartes de visite:
Arthur Alphonse Peabody
Contractor and Drayman
Furniture Moved With Care
Good Sharp Building Sand
and Dermot Peach
Master Mason & Builder
Jobbing Promptly Attended To
His Residence Upon the Corner
of Johns Road & Brimblecomb Avenues.
Six discolored coins,
four Indian-_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ pennies,
one Liberty-_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ nickel
altogether a newly-minted 1898
“_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _” count of nineteen cents.
A dead green_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
and a single Bible page,
with the underlined prediction:
“There shall not be left here
one stone upon another.”
Chip Off Frederick _ _ _ _ _ _ Trump’s Block
Deck him, is what they’d rather do: thump
the stuffing out of Him Who ordered their
hall clogged by his huge _ _ _ _ _ _mas tree
with golden wreaths, gift boxes, ribbons &
bows gaudier than the humble menorah’s
off-white paper dreidels cut out by Trump
Hollywood’s Merry Pre-_ _ _ _ _ _ian Chorus:
With age I’m getting less accustomed to the world.
I once accepted it as naturally my home;
but lately, as I brace myself to exit it,
increasingly it strikes me as a strange place
for a grown man to spend any more time than he must.
What, after all, is weirder than the wobble, dip, and flutter
of the maple leaves which mob the bedroom window?
What is sillier than insect heads?
What difference could it ever make
which special attribute the latest grandkid shows?
The love that’s helped it all cohere is loosening,
or very possibly the other way around.
Brain chemistry in either case: retrenchment of
some enzyme or hormonal flux that organized
stray rubble into minor life-affirming chronicles.
It feels as if I’m pulling on a thread,
a horse’s tail hair like the strand King Dionysius used
to pose the sword of Damocles: my bride of sixty years
who unlike all the rest of it, as she goes bald and blind,
appears more definite.
She has a similar experience,
exclaims at unfamiliar sounds and shadows,
and complains of glimpsing ballerinas in the dinnerware;
she often mixes up our children with the grands.
But faithfully, she reaches out, untrembling my hand.
He sleeps to a white-noise audio
of loud, fast, wet bootsteps _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
down a mucky trail,
inspiring dreams so brave,
he wakes up thinking he did something,
earning a big breakfast.
Then clamping a red cap
onto his apricot coiffure
and _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ downstairs to the office,
he settles down heavily to watch CNN
and daydream of making America
as great as tweeting
You want me to tell you what is wrong
with the English and with the Jews?
It’s how _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ they talk. Big time.
Two English guys are calling their soccer game
and one of them goes to say:
“Marta wants to get to her left foot
but the defender’s not letting her.”
But then he just has to add a “to.”
“The defender’s not letting her to.”
Then another announcer asks him,
“Would you swap your shirt with Marta?”
And the first one goes to answer, “I might,”
but now he can’t resist adding a “do.”
“I might do.”
Then your Jew does just the opposite.
He goes to say, “I know you like chickpeas,
so I got them for you”—
only he has to drop the “them.”
“I got for you.” Or whatever.
Nothing else is wrong with two fantastic races,
but that’s enough.
It just gets under my skin every time.
It’s supposed to be the same language
but they have to just add or subtract
some little bit, to get under your skin.
What is that? Tell me. Really.
It’s as if they’re saying: “See? I talk _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
to prove I’m different from you.”
The Interpretation of _ _ _ _ _s
I remember only a few things.
In the course of a long night’s cavorting,
I killed a bunch of people.
Swimming in a pool at the 2nd house over
(which was also ours, whoever “we” were,
and a public park as well)
was also part of the Trump.
In the morning, I was unpacking my beloved gear
(I forget what it was) from a knapsack (I think),
while considering the likelihood that I would be
convicted of the murders, of which I knew
(I don’t remember why) I would be suspected.
What I feared most was the lie detector test.
Today as I sit down and resume work
on my Donald J. Dream Collection,
it dawns on me that the Trump had sprung from
my immersing myself too much in Dream—
who actually is Satanic.
That epiphany calls for
an immediate second cup of coffee
and writing this, now a 2nd-tier Dream-related
sublimation symptomatology (the 3rd tier,
I realize, will be the murders of the Dreams).
Let’s hope this tier keeps its finger in the dike
until the midterm elections, Dream’s impeachment,
or November 3, 2020 (whichever comes first),
a date I gratefully note is 5 days earlier
than the November 8 election that brought this
whole thing down around my head.
_ _ _ _ _: Two Prophecies
William Cowper, 1782
In vain : the slave of arrogance and pride :
He has no hearing on the prudent side.
His still-refuted quirks he still repeats ;
New-raised objections with new quibbles meets ;
Till sinking in the quicksand he defends,
He dies disputing, and the contest ends—
But not the mischiefs ; they, still left behind,
Like thistle-seeds, are sown by every wind.
“My life feels like a halfway house
between avoidance and acceptance.
Or else the other way around.”
He fondles her rear and answers,
“If you want to be a _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _,
honey, I don’t want to hear that.”
The _ _ _ _ _-Moth
“The whole shadow of Man is only as big as his hat.” – Elizabeth Bishop
The genus Neopalpa was described in 1998
by Czech entomologist Dalibor Povolný
from a single species that he named N. neonata.
Now a new species is described as Neopalpa donaldtrumpi,
collected from Riverside and Imperial counties
in southern California and Baja California in Mexico at mercury-vapor light,
black-light and Malaise traps in dry and sandy habitats.
It is easily diagnosed as distinct from N. neonata by yellowish-white scales
covering the frons of the adult’s head
and the distinctive orange-yellow coloration on the forewing dorsum.
This new species is named in honor of
45th President of the United States Donald J. Trump
because of the resemblance of the scales on the head of the moth
to Mr. Trump’s coiffure.
Male genitalia comparatively smaller than N. neonata;
tegumen slender and parallel sided, anterior margin laterally notched;
uncus long and narrow with round tip;
gnathos a short spine with distinct V-shaped arms;
culcitula weakly developed;
saccus elongate, narrowing towards an acute tip;
phallus elongate with a subovate caecum and a distinct subterminal spine.
_ _ _ _
The famous _ _ _ _, I forget his name—
who cares which one?—
he wrote about this gust of wind
which rounded all the dry leaves up
and sent them skidding down a road—
except for one, which blew amazingly
straight back into the breeze’s teeth
for ten or fifteen feet—
then sprang into the air, described
a spare, then medium, then whopping
back up into the crowns of birches
which just days ago had let it drop.
Know what my brilliant daughter said?
Oh, I’m so proud of her. I’ll share it—
Keats, whoever, he disguised it
in the way that _ _ _ _s have to do—
but he was writing about me
and how my whole campaign
flew in the face of all the punditry—
or if he wasn’t—consciously—
it does apply to me so perfectly,
he must have had me on his mind.
How dare Trump say that!
But my mother used to always urge me—
Donnie, if the shoe fits, wear it.
Fellow Trumpans and people of the world!
Every four years, we gather on these steps to carry out a peaceful and orderly transfer of power, and we are grateful to President Obama for his gracious aid throughout this transition.
But today we are not merely transferring power from one party and administration to the next!
We are actually transferring it from Washington, D.C. and giving it back to you the people!
This moment is your moment! It belongs to you!
It belongs to everyone gathered here today and everyone watching all across Trumpa!
This is your day! These United States are your country!
You forgotten citizens will be forgotten no longer!
Everyone is listening to you now!
You came by the tens of millions, the likes of which the world has never seen!
We share one heart, home, and glorious destiny!
God bless you and God bless Trumpa!
Looking only to the future, I issue this decree to every foreign capital and hall of power: From this day forward, it will be Trumpa first!
We shall not impose our way of life, but let it shine as an example for others!
At the bedrock of our politics: total allegiance to the United States of Trumpa!
There should be no fear!
This Trumpan carnage stops right here and right now!
We are protected and will always be protected by the great men and women of our military and by God!
We will not fail!
We stand at the birth of a new millennium, ready to unlock the mysteries of space and free the earth from the miseries of disease!
Whether black or brown or white, we all enjoy the same glorious freedoms!
We all bleed the red blood of patriots and salute the great Trumpan flag!
The Middle-Age Trump_ _ _ _ _ _s Ball
Blatella use two pieces of information to decide where to go—
how dark it is and how many other _ _ _ _ _ _s are already there.
Gloom deepens by the hour.
Soon the turtledoves fall silent.
Gloom deepens by the hour.
Soon the turtledoves fall silent.
Cock_ _ _ _ _ _s cluster, cluster.
Gloom deepens by the hour.
Soon the turtledoves fall silent.
Cock_ _ _ _ _ _s cluster, cluster
till the full moon bravely rides.
Niht taketh maidin of the route
And turnith up her white toute.
You’re a Mean Cunt, Mr. _ _ _ _ _
I feel one candelabra earring
puddling on the green felt
as I cue up my winning shot
8 ball in the corner pocket
& I hear you leer don’t choke
the great john holmes said
“Melania, in your wildest dream did you ever see me as President?”
“Donald, please forgive me, but you were not in my wildest dream.”
Sasha thought about Trump when she read,
“The Papilio glaucus caterpillar possesses
an osmeterium—an orange, fleshy organ
that emits foul-smelling terpenes to repel predators.
Normally hidden, the osmeterium is located
on the first segment of the thorax, and can be
everted when the caterpillar feels threatened.
The combination of eyespots and osmeterium
makes the caterpillar resemble a snake.”
That made her immediately lose interest
in the dead butterfly she’d found in the lawn,
but still, she didn’t feel right about simply
tossing it into her trash can. Nor could she throw it
in the toilet and flush. So she wrapped it
in a Kleenex and tucked it in her schoolbag.
The Mirror on the Presidential Bedroom Wall
All the world is in an eye
or grain of sand, I’ve heard.
In tune. I’d add distress,
a measure dark, disguise.
The madman’s favorite sight.
Still, stand aside. Now see?
I’m plenishing my face in
an immense magnolia tree.
To the Mirror on the Presidential Bedroom Wall
Your mom’s a bowl of water.
Your grandma just a puddle.
When I look and let my light
bounce off your skin,
then back into my eyes,
does all of it depart?
Must not a trace remain?
Do bits of heat accumulate
within your depths?
A minor, outstretched arm?
A retrospect of seedy charm?
I want it to be true:
I gaze upon you every day
and something of me stays
inside the silvered glass,
the selfsame silver nitrate
on which light etched
Don’t tell me it’s insane.
Did you just prove my point?
You saw it, right? The town of Cabin Creek in Colorado—whole town totally equipped—for sale! They said it has a motel, diner, RV park and…
gun range. That’s exactly where we’re heading for! The lowest birth rate we have ever ever had. Way down! Do we really need more abortion…
meanwhile Mexicans are pouring in! It’s bad enough one state turned into New Mexico, do we want Arizona, Texas, Utah, California to be next?
The State of Pussy, Seaside Heights NJ
The arcade’s Mr. Claw penny-grabber,
filled with small stuffed kittens,
$7 GRAB UNTIL YOU GET A PUSSY!
10 youths breast-fed Grand Theft Auto
throng it, hooting like aroused chimps,
all males, while the teenage girls
lurk in a sour knot outside and smoke.
A TV in the bar next-door blares Trump
on Fox News, 10 a.m. to 3 a.m.—
outbreaks of cheering from the drunks,
the women even louder than the men,
their pussies, tits, and asses ready
to be grabbed for $7 rum & Cokes
and cheese-steaks with grilled peppers.
Seven Muslim children dance ahead,
the girls in hijabs, boys in kufis, mom
and grandma both in royal blue chadors
and matching Puma running shoes.
The children’s father, not a shy man
either when it comes to grabbing any
pussy he can manage, is at mosque.
After 150 Years, Alaska Returned
By MICHAEL D. SHEAR and HELENE COOPER
JAN. 27, 2017
WASHINGTON — Effectively reversing his predecessor William Seward’s Folly after exactly 150 years, the new Secretary of State Rex Tillerson announced that he had successfully negotiated reversal of the disastrous Alaska Purchase, while making a handy profit for the U.S. Treasury in the process.
Asserting the right to return Alaska under the American “Lemon Law,” the new deal’s terms require Russia to reimburse the U.S. for the full purchase price, as well as 2.1% compound interest, making a total of $162,627,433, more than $0.38 per acre. However, no additional payment will be made for the additional territory which Canada ceded to the U.S. in the controversial multinational arbitration award of 1903.
American President Donald J. Trump issued a brief statement via Twitter: “I hope this hugely successful for America deal will finally put to rest all fake news accusations of myself being soft on Russian and Putin!”
Meanwhile, the Russian president appeared before reporters in Moscow and admitted, “I might have been humiliated. Donald Trump is a consummate negotiator. However, I did succeed in holding out for 2.1% rather than 2.0% interest, as well as standing firm that the U.S. include the significant territory of the Canadian cession, free of charge.”
Initial polls indicate that likely voters across the United States approve of the shedding of Alaska by wide margins. Secretary Tillerson has no plans to bask in popularity, however, vowing to push forward to fulfill President Trump’s “America First” campaign, including the sale of Hawaii and Puerto Rico to Mexico in a deal which is expected to include full reimbursement by Mexico for the new American wall along its southern border.
_ _ _ _ _iculture
If she wants to think
I’m nicer than I am—
don’t turn to me to disabuse her!
She’s no sterner with herself.
We have to view things
at a proper distance—
it’s the thought that counts.
Our best sex organ is the brain.
Go take some weed
and tie it to a fancy wire stake.
It’s suddenly a gorgeous specimen,
you’ve noticed that?
Believe me, you rename the rose
“the fungus flower”
or “the pile of shit,”
no way it smells as sweet, okay?
First White House Interview (Cento)
Thank you very much, David.
There’s nothing bigger.
There’s nothing bigger.
Dead people are registered to vote and voting,
which they do.
No, no, I had a tremendous victory.
One of the great victories ever.
The most ever or just about the most ever.
One of the greatest victories ever.
And that speech was a home run.
They said it was one of the great speeches.
I got a standing ovation.
They said it was the biggest standing ovation
since Peyton Manning had won the Super Bowl.
And they said it was equal.
I got a standing ovation.
It lasted for a long period of time.
And I think you would even agree to that.
They say I had the biggest crowd
in the history of inaugural speeches.
We had a massive crowd of people.
We had a crowd. I looked over that sea of people
and I said to myself, “Wow.”
And I’ve seen crowds before. Big, big crowds.
That was some crowd. We had the biggest audience
in the history of inaugural speeches.
It is a tremendous magnitude.
When you see the size. The size.
Where you really see it
is when you’re talking about problems in the world.
And we do have problems in the world.
Big problems. The size of it. The size.
Yeah, absolutely, 100 percent.
Our country has enough problems.
Look, look, our country has a lot of problems.
Believe me. I know what the problems are
even better than you do.
They’re deep problems, serious problems.
We don’t need more.
But you’re going to see. You’re going to see.
We’re going to have a very strong one.
A very solid one where you have great people
that are here that have done a good job.
But now we have really bad people that are here.
We’re going to have extreme in all cases.
And I mean extreme.
The world is a mess.
The world is as angry as it gets.
The world is an angry place.
The world is a total mess.
It’s time. Our longest war—
we’ve been in there for 15, 16 years.
Nobody even knows what the date is.
Because they don’t really know when did we start.
But it’s time. It’s time.
The world is a mess, David.
Golden Showers / Performance Art / Trump Protest
Splashed across the front page:
He is way up high,
operating a 50’ truck-mounted cherry-picker,
positioning himself exactly above
each of Mar-a-Lago’s darling 30’ palm trees
to pee down on them one by one.
The amount he manages to piss
is truly astounding.
My youngest boy once asked me, “Dad, should I always tell the truth?” And you know what I did? I laughed my fucking ass off right in his face! “_ _ _ _ _ _, my boy,” I explained to him. “Whenever truth will set you free, you tell the truth. but when truth will put you behind bars, then you don’t.”
Truth, truth! The media can’t seem to stop harping about it! “Don’t bear false witness against your neighbor, _ _ _ _ _ _, but the rest is fair game. It’s even in the Bible. The first thing God ever said to Adam and Eve was a lie, wasn’t it? “It will kill you if you eat that apple.” But it didn’t.
And God has Moses lie to Pharaoh! God says, “I will take you to Canaan. But tell him you just want to travel 3 days in the desert for a sacrifice.” I know my Bible! Give me a break! And so if God can do it, believe me, I can do it. And so can my _ _ _ _ _ _. “But just don’t lie to me,” I told him.
All human beings lie—am I right? Birds lie. Beasts lie. So do insects. It should be in the days of Creation: “Then God said, Let there be lies! And he saw the lie, that it was good. And he divided the lies from truth.” So I told little _ _ _ _ _ _, “If you do lie, just remember never to admit it.”
Make America Great Songbook, January 19, 2017
The Inauguration un-engaged Rebecca Ferguson
when she asked if she could sing “Strange Fruit.”
Southern trees bear strange fruit
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root
Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees
Okay, that’s fine. That didn’t suit Trump’s mood.
Instead Toby Keith sang “Beer For My Horses”:
Grandpappy told my pappy, back in my day, Son
A man had to answer for the wicked that he done
Take all the rope in Texas, find a tall oak tree
Round up all them bad boys
Hang them high in the street
For all the people to see
We got too many gangsters doing dirty deeds
Too much corruption, and crime in the streets
It’s time the long arm of the law
Put a few more in the ground.
“We got a lot of building for a small amount of Jews.”
Though many had been planted in the soil of Victoria, Texas, for only a few years, a number of Victoria’s Jews took up arms for the Confederacy. Lewis Silverstein enlisted in Company B of the 6th Texas Infantry, which saw action at the Battle of Chickamauga, and attained the rank of lieutenant. Solomon Halfin, son of Jacob, enlisted in the 4th Texas Cavalry, Company C. Abraham Levi also supported the Confederate government. He journeyed home after the war to find his home occupied by a Federal commander.
Godcheaux, Abraham’s eldest son, returned to Victoria in 1869 after graduating from Columbia University. He was the first president of the Victoria Light, Power & Ice Company, and the first Texan to establish a scholarship fund and chair for the state university in Austin. Leo Levi, graduate of the University of Virginia, was the national president of B’nai B’rith. In 1894, Victoria Jews established an official congregation, named B’nai Israel. In 1903, Leo Levi drafted the Kishineff Petition, a document addressed to Czar Nicholas II denouncing the pogroms against Russian Jews. It was endorsed by U.S. Secretary of State John Hay and President Theodore Roosevelt.
B’nai Israel relied on traveling rabbis in the region. Rabbi Henry Cohen of Galveston was the most influential. 1900 American Jewish Yearbook lists Godcheaux Levi as lay reader of the Temple B’nai Israel Congregation, but under the supervision of Rabbi Cohen. By 1907, the congregation shared a building with the Masons: the synagogue on the first floor, and the Masonic Temple on the second. By 1912, the congregation had acquired a building next door, to use for their Sunday school. B’nai Israel was Reform, joining the Union of American Hebrew Congregations by 1905, and had 26 members in 1910. A small group of Orthodox Jews, mostly Eastern European immigrants, met together to pray in private homes. Grocer Max Bettin, who had come to Victoria in 1884, kept that group’s Torah in his home.
B’nai Israel received its first full-time rabbi in September 1905. German-born George Solomon, an 1893 graduate of Hebrew Union College, remained at B’nai Israel for only a year or two, leaving on account of the humid Texas climate. His replacement, Dr. M.M. Sessler was installed April 26, 1907, and was highly respected by the community. In one instance, Victoria’s Episcopal priest invited Sessler to present a sermon titled “When Will the Messiah Come?”
The Victoria Jewish population peaked around 1920 at 120, near the time of the erection of the city’s first and only synagogue. Temple B’nai Israel, built in 1923, stands today at 604 North Main Street. The new synagogue effectively served both the Reform and Orthodox Jewish communities following its construction.
While the overall population of Victoria grew freely throughout the 20th century, from 5,957 in 1920 to 60,603 in 2000, the Jewish population declined substantially, from 120 in 1918 to under 50 by the new millennium. Despite falling numbers, Jews still held prominent roles in the community. For instance, David Lack, the son of immigrants from Russia, became B’nai Temple president and founded Lacks, one of the largest furniture store chains in Texas.
“Disgust” was his son Jay’s one-word response in June, 2007, when asked to describe his reaction to anti-Semitic graffiti scrawled on Temple B’Nai Israel. Two swastikas, “Heil Hitler,” and “Fuck Jews” were spray-painted on the front of the small brick building.
On January 27, 2017, newly installed President Donald Trump signed his infamous “Muslim Ban” executive order.
On January 30, 2017, Jews in Victoria handed Muslim worshippers the keys to their synagogue after the town’s only mosque, the Victoria Islamic Center, burned down, after having previously been burgled. The Victoria police and fire department joined the FBI and the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms to investigate the fire’s cause. “I hope it wasn’t a hate crime,” mosque co-founder and president Shaid Hashmi said. The doctor had lived in the so-called Bible Belt, one of the most conservative parts of the United States, for 40 years. The mosque was constructed in 2000, a year before the September 11 attacks. “Jewish community members just walked into my home and gave me a key to the synagogue.”
Robert Loeb, president of Temple Bnai Israel, said: “Everyone knows everybody, I know several members of the mosque, and we felt for them. When a calamity like this happens, we have to stand together. We have probably 25 to 30 Jewish people in Victoria, and they probably have 100 Muslims. We got a lot of building for a small amount of Jews.”
_ _ _ _ _ _ Westbrook
A boy walked up with one of his shoelaces dragging behind him.
_ _ _ _ _ _ Westbrook looked down at the floor.
“Tie your shoe, man,” he said.
The boy looked down, too, then held out his cap to be signed.
_ _ _ _ _ _ Westbrook signed it.
“Work hard in school,” he said. “And tie your shoe up.”
The boy walked off, shoelace still flopping around.
“Don’t forget to tie your shoe!” _ _ _ _ _ _ Westbrook shouted after him.
For the rest of his signing session,
_ _ _ _ _ _ Westbrook’s focus was locked onto the children’s shoelaces,
a strangely high percentage of which seemed to be loose.
“Your shoe is loose,” _ _ _ _ _ _ Westbrook would say as a child walked up.
“Tie your shoe up.”
He was cheerful but firm; he seemed genuinely concerned.
Dozens of kids filed up,
and _ _ _ _ _ _ Westbrook scrutinized each of their shoes,
and not a single loose lace was allowed to pass without comment.
Over and over, he told kids to tie their shoes.
Even if the laces were not all the way untied,
just trending in that direction,
_ _ _ _ _ _ Westbrook pointed it out, “Tie your shoes up”—
like he had identified a public safety epidemic
he was single-handedly going to fix, one child at a time.
A boy stepped up with both shoes intentionally untied,
laces dragging like catfish whiskers.
“Do you like to wear your shoes like that?” _ _ _ _ _ _ Westbrook said.
“I used to do that. But you gotta tuck ’em in.”
Before the boy could answer,
_ _ _ _ _ _ Westbrook knelt down on the floor
and tucked the boy’s shoelaces into the sides of his sneakers.
Finally, the signing session ended.
Some of the kids got to take a group photo with _ _ _ _ _ _ Westbrook,
then returned to their classrooms, laces safely snug on their feet,
and _ _ _ _ _ _ Westbrook drove off in a huge black Cadillac sedan.
_ _ _ _ _ Trade
America is like one of those one-legged ducks
you see stumbling around at the edge of the duck ponds.
That’s right, some sneak bit off one of our legs,
and the media is like “No, there’s nobody there.
Do you see anybody? No. I don’t see anybody!”
They keep out of sight. Mexico, China, Japan and Germany.
We’re big jerks. We still have one leg to stand on—
because they need us to lay the golden eggs!
It’s the only reason they let us have one leg.
But now we need to kick their asses with it.
He shed new corpses as he went.
That was the secret of his re-election. Every so often, he’d come across a former mourner who would claim: “You remind me so much of a man I voted for in 1964.” In 1992. Or 2000. No one ever guessed the truth, although it stared them in the face.
Same iris, fingerprints and DNA. Still, he was growing older. Walking away was no fountain of youth. Resurrecting himself over and over felt more and more like Sisyphus. Maintaining just the hair became almost a full-time job. So there was only one solution—drastic and unorthodox.
On the way to his newest funeral, he wedged himself into the coffin beside the stiffs, shut his eyes, folded his hands, held his breath and did his best cadaver imitation. The pallbearers felt something wrong, but no one felt up to addressing it, no one dared to blow the whistle.
Lying there, interred in the casket with his dead former selves, turned out to be harder than what he had hoped to escape. The inconveniences were fewer, and humiliations milder, but the boredom was crushing. He tried to wake the cadavers up, but they either couldn’t or wouldn’t.
Time was the best medicine. It eventually got murky who was trying to wake up who, but familiarity bred a particular comfort, a gradual intimacy between them. What at the beginning had seemed an insurmountable difference—one could shift his position, but the others couldn’t—faded.
Years later historians unsealed the box, numbered all the bones and thought it was a case of clones squeezed deftly, still alive, beside their wrists-cut Prime in the moldering coffin. Subsequent examinations adjusted the count upward and upward.
He shed new corpses as he went.
Last Three _ _ _ _ _ _
Donald J. Trump @realDonaldTrump ᐧ 13m
Blame it on Propecia. Blame it on beloved FREDDY JR. Blame it on JEW Gloria Allred. Blame it on Crooked Hillary, Lyin’ Ted & Cryin’ Chuck…
Donald J. Trump @realDonaldTrump ᐧ 13m
Blame it on Vlad PUTIN, Rex Tillerson & Steve Bannon. Blame it on EXXON. Blame it on Ivanka, Marla, Melania etc. Blame it on Howard Stern…
Donald J. Trump @realDonaldTrump ᐧ 12m
Blame it on the Fake News @CNN. Blame it on Fox News traitors & all LEAKERS! Blame it on NRA & FLA Jack Hagler Self-Defense Act…#LastTweet
_ _ _ _
the fatted calf,
the unborn child,
the boy and let the man be born,
the goose that laid the golden egg,
the grace of the lancet windows on the north and south sides of the chancel.
A Moment of Emotional Diplopia
Do you see that beautiful tree?
See the dirty white plastic bag—
stuck in the one branch there?
That’s driving me fucking crazy!
Here I am in the White House
and there’s garbage in my tree!
Go tell GOTUS. I want it gone!
I want it gone before lunch time,
lunch meeting with DEA chief.
He won’t want to see that there,
tiny camera or listening device
maybe hidden inside a fake bag.
I really want the Secret Service
to have a good, careful look at it
after taking it down off the tree.
They can build a secret camera
right into the plastic bags’ skin!
Then float it with remote control.
I bet those CNN crooks would!
Or the Washington Post crooks!
Or all my enemies in the CIA?
Tell the gardener to let me know
when he’s ready to go up for it.
I want to tag along to make sure
someone in the Secret Service
doesn’t just quietly whisk it away
and we never find out the truth.
In any event, it’s really bugs me.
It’s like an insult to all America!
Couldn’t that one tree be clean?
FEPA Chief Named
President Trump’s new Homeland Security chief Gen. John Kelly has announced that three-time Poetry in a Jiffy champion Imelda Donnelly is his pick to head up the Federal Emergency Poetry Agency, or FEPA.
The sprawling agency has been bitterly criticized for having been too slow to compose mobile poems in the wake of Hurricane Katrina.
“They just weren’t expediting it fast enough,” Ms. Donnelly commented. “There’s no excuse for taking so long to get emergency verses in place. I promise you, that pace will pick up under me!”
Gen. Kelly had lavish praise for the brash young poet. “She has a proven track record for emergency poetry,” he said. “Last April, for example, an Indian-flagged merchant ship carrying 3,900 metric tons of iron pellets broke loose from its anchor in New York Harbor. Ms. Donnelly was rushed to a Coast Guard rescue helicopter.
“As they approached the breakaway freighter, Ms. Donnelly fearlessly took the megaphone and improvised:
‘Da sea a jungle,
law o’ nature, ‘ight?
E’body got ta fight!
It sink or swim, bro!
Swim or drown!
De weak link gon’
ta drag us all down
‘less we stan’ up,
takin’ care a biz,
e’body man up,
be da fuckin’ shiz!
Ya see dat squid?
Dat mo’-fo’ bad!
It got a beak hid
in dat mouf’ pad
wif dis insane
killah wire cutter,
violate yo chain
like it was butter!
But da coldest fish,
Ya hear dat swish
o’ eye cups spread
out on dat spar,
ya got ta strike first,
show dat shark
who bite da worst!
Ya got ta slash out,
lacerate & whip!
Ya got ta lash out,
leverage yo ship
& anchor bof’
ta gib dat fiend
a taste what stone
cold killah mean!
Ya lie dere, suck
on tits & sleep,
leviathan go’ fuck
yo hard ‘n deep!’
“She continued to extemporize. All hands were airlifted to safety, and the runaway vessel was re-secured. The President and I look forward to an equally swift confirmation process for Ms. Donnelly by the Senate. Thank you.”
_ _ _ _ _: The Art of the Real
Suppose the polar ice cap’s
melting less because of global warming
than because it chooses to?
And iron doesn’t have to rust?
Bees aren’t forced to manufacture honey,
or deceased return to dust?
What if free will is truly more pervasive
than we ever thought?
What if dissent in nature,
just like our revolts in history, is just?
Gush! Flood! Seethe! Struggle! Clench!
Run, puddles, run! Wake up!
My sweet heart, beat!
So what it’s 43 degrees and rising?
Snow is dreaming blood?
The toughened pack might just say “No.”
My point is simply this:
You drink a lot of coffee,
then you’ve got to piss and you assume
the link is causal, when it’s not.
Causality is Fake News at its worst!
Stuff happens when it wants to.
Nothing follows rules.
Your science is the creativity of fools.
Trump Man – October 14, 2016 – Bayou La Batre, Alabama
In a vacated spider web,
a mosquito husk
beaten by a light breeze.
“Stuff you find floating in the bayou is like the family Bible.
After these years, no Jesus walking on the water, though.
A baby, once. A dead Moses, maybe.
Plastic locket with a snip of kinky dyed-red hair in it.
The lids from coffee cans.
Boots, hula hoops, brooms, Coca-Cola cups.
Church-going hats, beer kegs, Bic lighters.
Empty booze pints with the caps screwed back on.
A singing trout, a Nicaraguan passport.
Curlers and hypodermics.
Still in torn shrink wrap—
bobble-head of Louis Armstrong or Al HIrt,
hard to tell with all the paint soaked off.
Raincoats, beaded roses, ironing-board.
A stiff budgie in a hair-pomade jar.
Truck tires, pom-poms, whiffle bats.
And a box from Amazon
with all those clear air-filled pontoons in it
and a little girl’s pink princess telephone.
I wouldn’t like no president who’s related to me,” he says.
“And I definitely don’t want no president who feels like me.”
Beaten by a light breeze,
a mosquito husk
in a vacated spider web.
Renaissance Man – October 28, 2016 – Runnels, Iowa
Do you see that, there? Zephyr’s Dumpsters. Which pretty
much says it all. Doesn’t it? But of course your nostrils
already know how bad this neighborhood smells. Yes? I’m
right, OK. Who really needs statistics from our FBI or our
Department of Labor to know something’s rotten in Denmark?
And you know its name is Hillary Clinton. Crooked, rotten,
bad by any other name, like our beautiful Juliet said in
Shakespeare. Do you remember that from high school? Even
back then, very beautiful Juliet and very beautiful Romeo
knew about her, and warned us about her! Hillary, ROTTEN!
When you step inside your polling booth Tuesday, I hope
you all will remember this disgusting stink, and our great
bard’s immortal words. The choice will be clear. Rotten
garbage Hillary Clinton. Or roses. Don’t laugh. I’m no rose! I
am not talking about me! I mean Our Beautiful America!
Plus beautiful Christianity. Shakespeare was a Christian.
Who can compare him to the greatest Jewish or Muslim
writer? Great Hindu writer? Yes, I happen to love Hindu, but to
be truthful, Shakespeare is better than all of them, everybody
agrees. So let’s Make Shakespeare Great Again too.
Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama would rather die than
stand up here and make a speech downwind from Zephyr’s
Dumpsters! For them, this terrible smell is OK for you, but not
for the big Washington politicians and their comrades in
mainstream media and on Wall Street! NOT real Christians!
I pledge to drain the Washington swamp. And to make all
of America Beautiful Again, and send what’s rotten in
Denmark back to Denmark where it belongs! Brexit said the
same thing in Britain, right? Was there any Danish writer as
great as Shakespeare? That was in Hamlet or Macbeth, right?
“Stardust” – August 6, 2016 – Windham, New Hampshire
Tonight only the mown field keeps the stars under surveillance.
Then when they stage cloud-cover and give themselves a window,
temporal and geographical, in which to execute small-angle mating,
assassination and the spreading of evidence first onto and then within
moist patches of soil right under the grasses’ noses
without anybody taking note—while promising payment in hay—
how can physics continue to claim they shed no more than photons,
blank and information-poor like processed empty calories?
We are more than the outcast landfill scows of solar bodies
toward which they jettison the ordure of inconstant thoughts and acts
which don’t comport with their pristine self-images
as splendid, consummate, sublime, pure and supreme;
more than the fluke zoology of assorted mold that grows on it!
Yes! I understand. Resistance put down root, sprang leaf
and dispelled a pollen of its own onto the wind.
Like a fog of 1’s and 0’s, collective conscience took hold
amongst the listening blades of sturdy meadow grass.
High masters of the universe were called persistently to task:
each boson, meson, hadron parsed, interpreted, critiqued,
although the giant squid of space was animated to devise
a way to cloak its purplest drops behind, inside and underneath
the evanescent bot syntaxes of the crystal snowflake lattices.
I understand the very distance of our exile is the air we breathe—
cloud-hidden though it is to blind us to our vital role as watchdog.
It’s a fight we’ll never win, but there’s a victory in witnessing!
There’s victory in 7.5 billion whispering, “You’ll never take our eyes!”
We only lacked strong leadership, and now I’m here. You see?
My mission isn’t only making our own nation great. Why stop?
Our country’s first, but there’s a long list coming after that!
What Jesus did was very good, I tip my cap to him, but didn’t God
command us to subdue the universe ourselves? To bring
Orion and the Ghost and Emu and Red Lion to their knees?
Believe we, we have always had the smarts and tools. But vision, no.
That’s my job. I have vision galore. I’ve got a lot of it!
Remember Pussy Galore? In James Bond? Well, I have dreams!
What that guy tried to do in Babel, but he never finished?
I will bring it in ahead of schedule and under budget! Easily.
No one has to worry about me. About us, together. Invincible!
And this hayfield will go down in history as where it all began!
Ella Walter Donald Baker White Trump
I agree with the famous Ella.
Strong people don’t need strong leaders.
But that’s not what we have in America, do we?
We have far too many weak people.
So we do need a much stronger leader.
I am a Negro, but my skin is light,
my eyes are blue, and my hair is blond.
The traits of my race are invisible on me.
White-skinned Negroes truly do disappear.
So I also agree with Walter.
Here is the promise I make to you
whether you vote for me or you don’t.
I will be African-Americans’ great champion.
We live in a very divided country,
but I will be your greatest champion.
Alexis de Trumpville, “Democracy in America”
When you’re awake, you want to stay awake. While you’re asleep, you want to stay asleep. While you’re still alive, you want to stay alive. And when you’re dead, you want to stay dead. Have you noticed? No one ever comes back! You have to ask yourself if they really want to. What if it is the best thing since sliced bread? But probably it’s just keeping to the status quo.
See how Congressmen keep getting elected? See how unhappy the American people get when Washington changes things too quickly? This is a middle-aged country. We like stability. Everyone says they were voting for change, but they were voting against so much change during the Obama years. The U.S. apple cart was careening too much, too quick, to the left.
We all largely survived the past, so we trust it. But the future—who knows? No one’s survived it! So now, I’m the devil you know! I scold myself to sit still and not shake things up too much, but I can’t stop! I only have to act presidential, but it’s too much fun trashing the government! So believe me, after this, our country will elect someone so boring, you will want to fall asleep!
Valentine’s Day @ 1600 Pennsylvania
He admires her slim arms
as she bags the garbage,
dusts the window frames,
and serves him herbal tea;
derides her previous jobs
as Supercuts hairdresser
and Stop&Shop checkout.
“…had Hitler become but Bürgermeister, and Trump but Borough President…”
Fate chose Jamaica as my birthplace,
that small town on the border between two New York counties
we made it our life’s work to reunite by any means necessary!
Nassau must be rejoined to its great Queensborough mother!
Our one blood cries out for one reich!
Only when our boundaries finally embrace the last Nassauvian
but can no longer provide ample Lebensraum or “elbow room”
will our august moral imperative to annex Suffolk County’s soil
arise from the longings of our people!
Tomm says Mike
like he’s lying
to a 5 year old
from The LIttle Red Book: Poems of Mao Tse-Trump
The sky is just as blue behind the clouds.
But it’s also just as black behind the blue.
So you have to pick, which will you trust?
You’ve seen those tiny fruit flies hovering
over an empty bowl where fruit had been,
because they don’t know what else to do.
I’ll tell you my secret about feeding kids:
you don’t have to cut the crust off bread.
The problem is that moms don’t butter it.
“Be yourself,” everyone says.
Every dumb-bell is their self!
I say, “No! Improve yourself.”
First the osprey and seagulls eat their fill;
then the opossums move in with the rats;
and then hermit crabs, beetles, and ants.
By the time the curlew treads the scaffold
of the tail and pulls a red-head centipede
from what had been a gill, even pa mullet
monitoring all of this from inside the pond
slips a silver bubble from stiff, pursed lips
and finally admits one of his sons is dead.
Donald J. Trump @realDonaldTrump ᐧ 13m
Big loud car alarm wailing right here at White House! WTF? It’s one of those
gigantic tinted-window SUV’s. Secret Service comes hurrying!…
Donald J. Trump @realDonaldTrump ᐧ 13m
There’s no driver, no keys, they don’t know what to do! Where’s one of those
bad hombres when you need them? They know how to turn it off…
Donald J. Trump @realDonaldTrump ᐧ 12m
do we have a White House tow truck? Good question, right? Or we can
scramble Air Force jet & drop a 500-lb. bomb or a tactical nuke on it…
Donald J. Trump @realDonaldTrump ᐧ 12m
is there a White House intercom? Like, “Would the owner of the black SUV in
the White House driveway please turn off that goddamn alarm…?”
Donald J. Trump @realDonaldTrump ᐧ 12m
One of them gets the hood open & seems to be pulling random wires! AAA?
Where’s the nearest gas station? Lower the Cone of Silence on it…?
Donald J. Trump @realDonaldTrump ᐧ 11m
Someone comes out the back door! They DIDN’T LOOK in the back seat!
She’s on her phone, hopefully to the driver! Good-looking woman, a 9?…
Donald J. Trump @realDonaldTrump ᐧ 11m
Secret Service are like, “Who the fuck are you & what are you doing, sitting in
the back seat of the car & where is your fucking driver?”…
Donald J. Trump @realDonaldTrump ᐧ 11m
Steve Bannon’s like, “Mr. President, shouldn’t you move away from the
window? She could be, like, Mata Hari! She looks Arab, doesn’t she”…
Donald J. Trump @realDonaldTrump ᐧ 10m
But here my little Barron is, to save the day! Move over, so-called security
experts! My so brilliant 10-year-old knows which wire it is…!
Wunderkopf at Luncheon
He acts like he believes his own head is the main attraction,
floating, as it does, majestically atop his 6-foot 3-inch frame,
while Mel’s amiable chatter unrolls as if a humble chyron
only intermittently attended by her equally trifling girlfriends,
who he assumes are as wowed as he is by his skull’s regality.
Not his face: the center of the universe of his preëminence
hovers in airless space behind and beyond the brow and mouth
whose role it is to maintain proper gravitas and not distract.
It’s less an aura than a poise with weight, an Oz-like intellect
with capabilities all the greater for the purity of its disuse.
A certain kind of male is envious; certain females fantasize
the man behind the curtain might conceivably transport them;
but at this point, neither wife nor friends have such illusions,
though they think of him as harmless: arrogant but cordial.
Inscrutability and solitude buoy him: perfectly content and vain.
Polter_ _ _ _ _
Who is to say we can’t maintain a finger in the pie after we die?
I must glance up at Papa’s photo there, a hundred times a day.
The general rule is,
we can stay a little bit alive, as long as no one notices:
can jiggle branches of a tree but not throw dishes at the wall,
dip down to sip from coursing brooks
but not sneak up on someone and shout Boo!
I know I’ll have to watch TV. My challenge will be to not pick up
the remote and flip to CNN when Don or Eric dashes off to pee,
and not to steal a peek at my incredible Ivanka in the shower.
The Jewish Cardinal
Look, they tied a little cow-bell.
I don’t know where they got it, but they got it, okay?
They tied the little cow-bell
to the cord that the birdfeeder was hanging from,
so I could hear it when the birds came, right?
And next thing you know, this smart-ass cardinal
was standing on the top of the birdfeeder—
not even trying to eat the bird food, by the way—
and it’s pecking the cow-bell!
Just standing there pecking the cow-bell!
Having a great time
just pecking the cow-bell, over and over!
So I said to Steve and Reince—
love that name Reince, don’t you love that name?
I said, “Guys, are birds even supposed to do
things like that? You know, using tools or whatever?
And they didn’t know, either.
So Reince goes on his phone to look it up.
He types in “bird ringing a bell” or whatever,
and tries to look it up.
But there’s nothing. There’s not one story about that!
So it is one smart bird.
Every other bird would just be eating the bird food,
but this one is ringing the cow-bell!
“That’s who I want you to find me
for national security adviser,” I told them.
Somebody with a real brain on their shoulders.
A real thinker, okay?
And you know what Bannon says?
“It’s probably a Jew.” The bird is probably a Jew!
Nobody thinks that brilliantly except a Jew!
I said, “I don’t care if he’s a Jew or not a Jew.
But that’s who I want.” See? I don’t care
if you’re a Jew or a fucking Martian or whatever.
I just want someone smart. So Reince says,
“Maybe Stephen Hawking?” Hawking.
Then the bird just stops and flies away.
Never had one bite of the food, just wanted the bell.
At that very moment, Jared walks in—
my son-in-law Jared, who’s very brilliant, by the way.
You know what “Jared” means, right?
Then he walks right in and says,
“I have to knock off now for shabbos.”
Which is the Jewish day of rest or whatever—
can’t work on shabbos
unless it’s, you know, a bomb falling.
Who can believe it! Do I have the smartest
people on my staff already? I’m asking you, do I?
We have ants in the White House of the United States of America?
No wonder we can’t conquer ISIS.
And every day, all of the Mexicans are laughing their asses off at us.
We can’t even defeat these ants.
Tell me who our exterminator is
and give me a list of all the other exterminators within twenty miles.
Not just the high-end companies.
I don’t even want the dainty ones. The low-class ones are better.
ISIS is cutting people’s heads off
and we’re pissing and moaning about friendly to the environment?
ISIS doesn’t have ants. Believe me.
They nuked those motherfuckers six ways till Sunday. Sorry! Boom!
Don’t tell me about the EPA rules.
EPA is as dead as these ants will be in three hours flat.
If the poison kills some of the rats that infest this place too, terrific.
If someone doesn’t like it, quit.
It’s like insect repellant. DEET. That’s the only one that works.
You should see some of the stuff your greenhorn golfers spray on.
And they get eaten alive. Totally.
Then they’re: “Who has real DEET?”
Ants—been around a long time! Am I right? And mosquitos too.
Some citronella or whatever the fuck
isn’t going to make a bit of difference to that kind of hombre. DEET.
You got to fry the motherfuckers.
Ask what Putin uses in Russia. That’s right, call him up, find out.
I bet you the sonofabitch knows exactly what they use on ants.
I bet he mixes that shit up himself.
So I’ll trade that for sanctions.
It’s the details, Reince. The secret
to making things great is always the little things, not the big things.
They’re all amazed when I tour my new golf course or hotel
and I say, Move that one tree 2’.
Get the airplane ready for Florida.
After I talk to all the exterminators and make a deal with one of them,
we’re going down to Mar-a-Lago for the weekend.
So then when we get back, you’ll see—no ants.
Our Planet is in Trouble
That might be true. Still, every month,
this big ark carries seven billion of us
with all of our parasites and baggage
across 51 million miles of outer space.
Somebody said that on a show I saw.
So I’m not worrying about our planet.
What does worry me is Mexico. A lot!
Too many very bad deals and hombres—
murdering Americans, bringing drugs,
stealing jobs. All of our jobs disappear.
That’s why I’m going to build the wall.
Exactly like that famous wall in China.
Tomorrow, all the fake news will claim,
“Donald Trump really hates Mexicans!”
But I don’t. I’m a huge fan of Hispanics.
What I hate is everybody who is illegal,
everybody who is a gang member,
and everybody who is raping our people.
When China built their own great wall,
the Emperor never said all Mongolians
were terrible barbarians. Some were
actually very good law-abiding people.
So he still built the wall, but put doors
in the middle of it for the nice ones.
Today, if you go up to outer space,
you can still see China’s great wall.
That’s right, it’s still there. Still huge!
That’s what our Mexico wall will be.
If anyone out there is ever thinking
of invading the Earth, they’ll think no.
That’s a thing we can do for our planet.
“Good fences make good neighbors.”
Did you ever hear that? By Robert Frost.
“Good fences make good neighbors.”
Good walls make even better neighbors.
So a wall works even better than a fence.
We call the Mexicans Mexicans. Right?
There’s a very good reason, okay?
Because they live in Mexico. Not here.
That’s why aliens are also called aliens.
Because they’re not supposed to be here.
Even Robert Frost said so: “The wall.”
So history and even poetry teach that.
Everyone knows except the Democrats.
“Oh, you can’t build a wall! Too rude!”
But do you notice? China’s still standing.
They’re stealing millions of our jobs too.
We don’t win anywhere anymore.
No, I never cry. I wish I did.
The Science Channel says tears are filled with the sex-satisfaction drug prolactin
and an opium drug named endorph-enmescalin or maybe meth-enmescalin,
I don’t remember it exactly. But whatever they’re called, I wish I’d get more of them!
“Cry me a river.” Am I right?
I do have a lot to cry about.
No one gets attacked more than I do, every single day.
If I did cry, I would probably be so, so happy, right? All those great drugs in me.
But as you know—and there are many times I wish I did—so many times, believe me—
I never had a drink, not even when I was younger.
So I should be very miserable, but I’m not miserable at all.
Did someone ever see me being miserable? Not once.
Nobody is less miserable—that’s not why I don’t cry, or maybe is why I don’t cry.
But I doubt my mother was a big fan of us crying.
The toughest woman ever. And everyone loved her. Loved.
“Lie About Everything, However Insignificant!” the President Insists
Golfer Rory McIlroy said he had played a full round
with Trump and with former Yankee star Paul O’Neill,
noting that the President had probably shot about an 80
and was “a decent player for a guy in his 70’s.”
“I know he played a couple of holes this morning,”
White House spokesperson Sarah Huckabee Sanders
informed reporters during the daily briefing on Sunday,
adding that he also had “played a couple” on Saturday.
Reminded of McIlroy’s comments, she said Trump
“intended to play a few holes and decided to play longer.”
Trump himself said on Monday morning that he had
“been working all weekend very diligently, very hard.”
_ _ _ _ _ International, 17th Tee
“Character tells you when to drop your principles.
Have you ever heard that?
But it doesn’t mean that good character is at work
every time you drop them, though.
Bad character tells you when to drop them, too!
Oh, that happens a lot!
Principles are a dime a dozen, right?” He laughed.
“I totally agree. Very cheap, Mr. President,” I said.
He hit. Straight as an arrow, some 180 yards. Nice.
“Principles are like pants. Like a pair of trousers!
Take yourself. You were criticized
for bad-mouthing the Ryder Cup and the Olympics
because you only wanted to win personal trophies.
When I defended you?
I took some flak myself.”
“Rory, Rory,” he scolded, after I hooked to the left.
The Ivanka Manifesto
“I think Ivanka’s role is to be helpful, and provide her input on
the variety of areas she has deep, passionate concerns about,
especially the area of young million-heiresses in the workforce,
and empowering them. She is someone with a lot of expertise,
and wants to offer that, especially understands that firsthand.”
– White House Press Secretary Sean Spicer, 2/23/17
1. People always want to put me down. They say I have no
business being so rich and glamorous, thanks to Daddy.
2. Every little girl who dreams about becoming the President
should not have to worry that Nordstrom one day will stop
selling her own daughter’s line of top fashion accessories.
3. People will automatically think that you should tip very well,
but you have just as much right not to tip as the poor have.
4. When you look at me, you’re surprised I have three children.
Plus, so much talent. I was on several of my Daddy’s shows.
Do you think I look a tiny bit like Lisa Kudrow on “Friends”?
5. I’m a Jew! Look at me, I’m a Jew! And my children are too!
We’re all Jews, because Jared is even richer than Daddy is!
6. I believe in access to quality childcare for working women
and in the 2nd Amendment. My own childhood nanny Milka
always carried a concealed weapon to keep us protected.
She was ex-Serbian military. That’s her with me and Eric.
You will never guess where her Zastava M70A is hidden!
7. This is my older brother, Don, wearing his own ammo belt:
8. Have I told you about all my deep, passionate concerns?
People think rich blonde girls are shallow. But we’re not!
The Orwellistical Whimsy of It All
U.S. Air Force spokesman Col. Pat Ryder,
on $1 billion in savings that the President
said he negotiated for the the new aircraft:
To my knowledge
I have not been told
we have that information.
The Winter’s Hale
The blessed gods
Purge all infection from our air whilst you
Do climate here!
God made Earth for people to subdue,
provided for the sparrows of the air
and raimented the lilies of the field,
but don’t fret over ice-insolvent bears’ and winter’s lineage.
We’re also loved.
The Hebrew bible makes it seem
creation only happened in the tropics,
but Jehovah made the ice caps too.
He firmamented, architectured them with polar edifice
and peopled them with ivory ptarmigan, beluga, ermine—
giving winter’s genealogy dominion,
to whom CO₂ accumulations
are but shadows of a former shadow’s breath.
When Trump says “Hoax,”
he speaks as accurately as the book of Genesis,
whose God outruns tailpipe emissions
with the same ease
snowshoe hares outdistance arctic foxes on the tundra.
Coal-burning captains’ sooty fingers
will not ever clutch Earth’s windpipe!
God holds each and every winter
in the hollow harbor of his hands—
the glacial floes and bergs of north seas boast his love
as much as does the biome of the Holy Land of Palestine—
and any so-called science that denies
his ecological prepotency is hubris.
Has the blazing sun itself succeeded
in its holy war on us and ours?
Of course not, we don’t worry in the slightest.
Nor should your kind.
West Wing Buttons
Reince! Quickly! Help!
Somebody screwed up this remote!
I can’t get anything!
The black remote?
No one’s supposed to ever touch that!
Who’s been in here?
Do I have to fucking lock
the Oval Office doors
to keep you prying motherfuckers out
when I’m upstairs?
Who does know to work it?
Is there nothing we can do
without that raggedy Rasputin’s hand?
No, I’ll be damned if I beg him to help!
I bet he fucked it up on purpose.
So, come here.
We’re two smart guys, Reince, no?
How complicated can it be?
There’s POWER, right?
SLEEP. RECALL. INPUT. FREEZE.
MUTE. EXIT. INFO. LIST.
GUIDE. ACTIVE. STOP.
Call Barron in New York.
Who cares if he’s in school?
Here, use my private cell.
Not ”Bannon”! “Barron,” idiot!
Tell him I said to walk you through it,
and to put his teacher on the line
if she objects.
And hurry up! Wolf Blitzer’s on!
Old Mr. Everybody-Trusts-Me!
Goddam ass-wipe! Fuck that guy!
Shit! Pass that phone to me!
Son? Yeah, it’s dad. The black remote.
Ah! I remember now!
Okay, another 50 grand. By PayPal? No.
But it’ll be there by the end of day.
This time it really will.
Say hi to Miss Rodriguez. Minx.
No! I said “Thanks.”
Look, Reince, forget the Japanese PM.
Go tell IT I want this thing OFF/ON.
We don’t need DVD and VCR.
ON/OFF. VOL UP and DOWN.
And PREV—last channel, right?—
so we can switch right back to Fox
when KTM shows up.
And 50,000 more to Barron’s CUTMA.
naming Vladdie as custodian!
I’ll get them both back, though!
Nobody fucks with Trump!
Oh shit, my TrackR watch is beeping!
Off with that TV!
Kairos in Keister
His siege is now
Against the mind, the which he pricks and wounds
With many legions of strange fantasies.
– King John
By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.
A thumb tack on my Oval Office chair? The leakers bad enough,
but pranks like this—not funny! I could easily have got infected!
FBI! Interrogate the cleaning ladies! Big time! Check the CCTV!
See who’s dropped what, who’s behind my desk—why!—when!
Find out who’s still even using thumb tacks! Cork boards, scary!
Full investigation! Bannon!—one more snicker and you’re toast!
Now I know what those magnificent gorillas in the zoo must feel,
locked in a cage, the crooked keepers claim they really love me,
but they don’t, they torture me behind my back! They get a thrill!
Oh, “Mr. President”! Then out to high-class bars at 5:00 to laugh
about the pranks they pulled on me, and secrets leaked to CNN!
Go tell the Air Force guys I’m flying back Mar-a-Lago for a week!
So now the Navy doctor’s got to check my ass? A tetanus shot?
Ridiculous! Can’t someone analyze the goddamn tack, instead?
Reince, help! I want my life back! All these strangers taking care
of me—don’t like it! Now they’re even saying Pence will stab me
in the back, first chance he gets! Obama’s got his long knife out!
But I won’t take it sitting down! Hell, no! Let slip the dogs of war.
You’re a bit of a hothouse flower, it was a polite-knock life for you,
and all the guys were thronging, curious, infatuated and salivating.
What none of them understood:
the delicate, when threatened, employ the most exquisite toxins;
and when I tell you this, you grin, you know I’ve got a good point,
but you’re not offering to spill, in your case, any of the goods.
While he also happens to be President of the United States, a cretin:
your opposite, completely crude.
A well done New York strip steak, with ketchup on the side.
What game is he trying to run, what does he hope to use you for,
what is it he wants me to witness?
You dismantle your lobster without ever seeming to touch it at all,
even with your tiny seafood fork, certainly not with your fingers.
I double-check: look for smudges on the hip of your chablis glass,
but it’s not betraying you either.
Meanwhile, our Chief Executive, wielding practically a Bowie knife
and a fork like Neptune’s trident, has smeared his with greases.
He bides his time until dessert, and then he reveals his proposal:
someone to shadow little Barron and Melania
on their weekends to Washington and Palm Beach,
to keep an eye, not on security or politics,
but on little comforts, like their double fairy godmother.
“Then you’ll call me up directly,
let me know what expenses were, and I’ll double them or whatever.
You pamper them and yourself. What do you say. Ms. Andersson?”
He picks up his rainbow parfait and extends it like a glass to clink
with yours and celebrate the deal. You are very tempted: I can see.
“You’d be doing me a great favor, he says. “A very, very big favor.”
You leave him hanging there, parfait glass in the air:
his best attempt at a charming smile frozen on his iguana mouth.
“Tom, help,” he says, and tilts his eyes to me.
“I know you’re her great friend.
Tell her how great this job will be, a sterling opportunity.”
You’re a bit of a hothouse flower, it was a polite-knock life for you,
but your toxins are quite exquisite when a predator is threatening.
Everything about you is delicate, except that sense of self-defense,
so robust when it needs to be.
I raise my flute of mousse, politely touch its lip to Trump’s, and lie:
“I pushed Ann once, Sir. No one prudent does that twice.”
He said, “Before we date—
you gotta go to my personal doctor
and get checked for STD’s.”
So I said, “And you see my shrink—
to get your ass checked out
for phobia and paranoia?”
“No need,” he said. “Already done!
I’ll show you my certificate—
I’m a summa cum laude!”
So we went out. No sex—
we both agreed on that, thank God!
And we both had a lot of fun.
Should he be President?
You’re shitting me! An dunce—
a couple laughs, no more than that!
the opposite of apes that talk,
a man who proudly knuckle-walks.
Ambassador Haley, at Jean-Georges
“Like epiphytes,” she said,
“I soak in calories from air!
If I just glimpse an eclair—
oops, another bulge of fat!”
“My dear,” Trump tempted.
“All our gorgeous pastries
are completely sugar-free!
No butter, pure chicanery!”
The waiter set them down.
She looked. Trump jeered,
“You may as well partake!
The harm’s already done.”
A Whole Bag of Potato Chips Before Bed. BAD!
Trump awoke. It was so dark that peering out from the great curtained bed, he could scarcely distinguish the transparent window from the opaque walls of his chamber. He was endeavouring to pierce the darkness with his ferret eyes, when the chimes of the National Cathedral struck the four quarters.
To his great astonishment, when he listened for the hour, the heavy bell went on from six to seven, and from seven to eight, and regularly up to twelve; then stopped. Twelve! It had been past two when he’d gone to bed!
“Is it possible,” he thought, “that something’s happened to the sun, and it is noon?”
The idea being an alarming one, he scrambled from the bed and groped his way to the window. He was obliged to rub the frost off with the sleeve of his nightshirt before he could see anything; and could see very little then. But there was no sign of people running to and fro, and making a great stir, as there unquestionably would have been if night had beaten off bright day and taken possession of the world!
He returned to bed and resolved to lie awake until the hour was past; and, considering that he could no more go to sleep than go to Heaven, this was perhaps the wisest resolution in his power.
The first quarter was so long, that he was more than once convinced he must have sunk into a doze unconsciously, and missed the clock. But at length, it broke upon his listening ear.
“A quarter past,” he thought.
“Half past!” he thought.
“A quarter to!” he thought.
“The hour itself!” he said aloud triumphantly.
And upon that instant when the hour bell sounded its deep, dull, hollow, melancholy ONE, light flashed up in the room, and the curtain of his bed was drawn aside, and Trump found himself face to face with the unearthly visitor!
It was a strange figure—a child, or an old man viewed through a supernatural medium, giving the appearance of having receded from view, diminished to child’s proportions. Its hair hung down its back, white as if with age; yet the face had not a wrinkle in it. Its tunic was purest white, and round its waist was a lustrous belt, the sheen of which was beautiful. But the strangest thing about it: from the crown of its head sprang a bright clear jet of light, by which all was visible; and which was doubtless the occasion of its using, in duller moments, a great cap held under its arm.
But even this, as Trump looked at it, was not its strangest quality. For just as its belt sparkled and glittered now in one part and now in another, so also the figure itself fluctuated in distinctness: being now a thing with one arm, now with one leg, now with twenty legs, now a pair of legs without a head, now a head without a body: of which dissolving parts, no outline would be visible in the dense gloom wherein they melted away. And in the very wonder of this, it would become itself again; distinct and clear as ever.
“Are you a Spirit, sir?” asked Trump.
Trump could not have told anybody why, if anybody could have asked him; but he had a special desire to see this Spirit in its cap; and begged it to be covered.
“What!” exclaimed the Ghost. “Would you so soon put out, with worldly hands, the light I give? Is it not enough that you are one of those whose passions made this cap, and forced me through whole trains of years to wear it low upon my brow?”’
Trump reverently disclaimed all intention to offend, or any knowledge of having wilfully bonneted the Spirit at any period of his life. He then made bold to inquire what business brought it there.
“Your welfare!” said the Ghost.
Trump expressed himself much obliged, but could not help thinking that a night of unbroken rest would have been more conducive to that end. The Spirit must have heard him thinking, for it said immediately: “Your reclamation, then. Take heed!” And it put out its strong hand as it spoke, and clasped Trump gently by the arm. “Rise! and walk with me!”
It would have been in vain for Trump to plead that the hour was not adapted to pedestrian purposes; that bed was warm; that he was clad but lightly in his night-clothes. The grasp, though gentle as a woman’s hand, was not to be resisted. He rose: but finding that the Spirit made towards the window, clasped its robe in supplication. “I am mortal,” Trump remonstrated, “and liable to fall!”’
“Bear but a touch of my hand,” said the Spirit, “and you shall be upheld in more than this!”
As the words were spoken, they passed through the wall, and stood on a quiet street in Queens, with homes on either hand. The White House had vanished; not a vestige of it was to be seen. The darkness and the mist had vanished with it, for it was a clear, cold, winter day. “Good Heaven!” said Trump, clasping his hands together, as he looked about him. “I was bred in this place! I was a boy here!” He was conscious of a thousand odors floating in the air, each one connected with a thousand thoughts, hopes, joys and cares long, long, forgotten.
“Your lip is trembling,” said the Ghost. “And what is that upon your cheek?”
Trump muttered, with an unusual catching in his voice, that it was a pimple.
“And can you recollect the house?” inquired the Spirit.
“I could find it blindfold!” cried Trump with fervor.
“Let us approach, then.”
And as they stepped toward the home, Trump recognised every brick and every patch of stucco, striped by dark brown beams. At a distance, schoolboys shouted to one another in great spirits; and the crisp air laughed to hear it.
“These are but shadows of the things that have been,” said the Ghost. “They have no consciousness of us.”
The jocund boys came on; and as they passed, Trump knew and named them every one. Why was he rejoiced beyond all bounds to see them? Why did his cold eye glisten and his heart leap up as they capered by, then parted at the corner, for their several homes?
“The schoolyard is not quite deserted,” said the Ghost. “A solitary child, neglected by his schoolmates, is there still.”
Trump said he knew it. And he sobbed.
If you rise to the sky—sure, there’s
one blessed moment of headiness
before you see your shadow’s size
and start to beg for shade yourself.
That’s how it feels to be President.
“In the mirror, twenty black geese
struggle up into the overcast sky,
before a series of explosive roars
reduce them to a mist of feathers,
sparks and shards of finger-bone.
“Then I fix the knot of my neck-tie
just like a million other men have,
and I head to my job at the office.
When you write this, Tom, I hope
historians will give me absolution.”
More like a zoo than a swamp.
Cart off all the turkey vultures,
leeches, toads, and alligators,
and you have about a tea cup.
Mold and Rumors
I think there’s mold. I smell it, do you smell it too?
That’s why I like brand new buildings—no mold.
Or when I bought Mar-a-Lago—gutted it.
The Old Post Office right here in D.C.? All gutted.
Now a great, great 5-star hotel,
but you never saw such mold.
Inside the walls. The floor.
And while they’re in there—take the wiretaps out.
You’ve seen the shows.
You’ve heard about the many bad, bad leaks.
Whole phone call transcripts, right?
I’ve got my own crew coming in next week.
The Secret Service are like, “They’re not vetted!”
So I overruled them. “Oh, they’re coming in!”—
regardless if I have to go down,
open up the gates myself.
But do I even have a key? No!
I’m the only one in the United States who doesn’t
have the key to his own driveway gate!
So all of that is going to change—and fast!
My lock guy’s coming too.
I don’t mean key key necessarily.
You know, a fob you press the button on,
and intercom to say, “Who’s there?”
But first the mold has got to go.
I won’t invite my friends here with the mold.
I don’t care what the Secret Service says.
What—OSHA? Big $550 million budget,
but I have to bring my own guys in
to get the mold? 5 minute, $30 test!
Tear down the walls! Alright?
Did President Reagan say it? John F. Kennedy?
Tear down the walls. Clean out the mold.
A man’s home is his castle. Right?
You heard about the water problem.
Where was that? Detroit, in Michigan?
They’re not the only one with problems.
Shame. Our country, it’s not great. Believe me.
And we have to make it great again.
The buck stops here. The buck stops here.
You think we’ll find some skeletons in there?
Can’t wait. Can’t wait to see that part!
We have a lot of rumors. Lots of rumors.
Mold and rumors. But we’ll get it all cleaned up.
Believe me. Win again. We’re going to win again.
It’s 3 AM. The smoke alarm goes off. I get, what, three-four hours sleep? Down in the kitchen, burning toast—guess who? My Secret Service guy! He gets the munchies in the middle of the night, and so he wants some toast. Okay? So then it burns. He’s looking for the butter. I get woke. Just think about it. A humungous mansion. 3 AM. Just me asleep. Nobody else is sleeping! Only me! But no. This loud, loud smoke alarm goes off! There must be 50 people working. Night shift. All awake, right? I’m the only one asleep, and so this false alarm wakes only me. So 7 guys come rushing in and say, “Don’t worry, Mr. President. Go back to sleep.”
Look. I don’t want to roast. Don’t get me wrong. But they could post two people at the door whose only job it is to wake me up if there’s a real emergency. Give them a silent smoke alarm. With lights. Vibrates. Or does a beep-beep in their ear. Should I sign an Executive Order? No more smoke alarms. No more radon alarms. When I’m asleep, they have to let me sleep. Nobody wants me tweeting, 3 AM! Believe me. Oh, the Democrats would have a field day! All the CNN reporters would be screaming, “Let us get a couple hours sleep!” This one time, I’d support them. They’d be right. Believe me. I’d support them. “Fake news has a good point.”
I’m begging Jared and Ivanka and the kids to be here too. Have someone else asleep. They all could go home to their own place on the weekends while I’m down in Palm Beach. They refused. Said no. No way. Said I was welcome at their new house. Two miles north of here? That’s what I hear. A bedroom, private bathroom, you know, anything I want. The kids would love it, right? “Oh, Grandpa! Mr. President! Wake up, it’s time to make us pancakes.” You know. You have grandkids, Tom. You don’t? Oh, you should get some, you would love it. “Grandpa! Grandpa!” But I couldn’t do it, though. Believe me. Little kids are like a smoke alarm all day!
Look. I have one rule. Never wake me up. There’s worse things I can do than tweet. Believe me. Much, much worse. Capisce?
Comrade Press Secretary
Trump found me finally.
and there Sean Spicer stood—
his jacket, up close, even more ill-fitting
and his smile even tenser
than they looked on TV.
Only him, no bodyguards or staffers.
I looked down the hall.
“May I come in?” he said.
We sat down in the living room.
“The President,” he said—
and paused to let the weight of that sink in.
“The President has scanned a couple pages
of your masterpiece.”
He paused again.
“And you?” I asked.
“My staff has looked it over carefully.”
“I don’t think you appreciate the gravity.”
He pulls his own tome from a briefcase,
maybe 90 pages.
They boil down to: Stop. Desist.
A funny man like you
can think up something else to write about.
My boss suggests the Democrats—
but he’d be just as happy if you skewer
ISIS, Mexico or China.
See? He has a sense of humor too.”
He let that sink in.
“Beer?” I offered.
“No, I can’t. This is a work call—
wish it wasn’t, but it is.
I wish it wasn’t because if it wasn’t,
then I wouldn’t have to hold in
this big smile of
appreciation and congratulations.
I write too, you know.”
Butchering the Glyptodons
The prairie’s sweetest meat, and plenty of it.
All you needed was a good strong stomach
for the butchery of driving spears into its eye
to find the brain—
then five stout men could roll it soft-side up.
But then it disappeared.
We new, bipedal demons had arrived by Bering Strait
and gorged on it until extinct.
Same thing with giant sloths, such easy feasts.
The megafauna of America was not prepared for us
and we just fed on them until the last one fell.
Unlike those Andes tribes who made the llamas pets
to keep providing them with food—
and so we warred on them too,
slaughtered what we won.
Our custom wasn’t thrift!
Those genes endure—the colonels and caudillos
who make ordinary peons’ everyday existence hell,
the Pinochets and Trumps,
the predatory bankers in sharp pin-striped suits,
the street thugs, bullies,
husbands who abuse their wives and kids,
and mortal temptresses
who slip honed fingernails into a lover’s heart.
Korean Missile Crisis
Let’s bomb their nukes. Can we do that? Or does that let out too much radiation?
That would piss the Japanese off. Wow. And Greenpeace liberals—it’s tempting!
But all that nice Alaskan fish. Can’t do it. It would kill the sandwich at McDonald’s.
Navy SEALs? Could they go? Sabotage? They didn’t do so good in Yemen, right?
So then I had to eat crow big-time—say that guy who died was such a hero when
the guys who didn’t die were more, if you ask me. Same thing with John McCain.
We praise the ones who lose, that’s why we never win, we have to praise the one
who kills the enemy, believe me. Not the guy who gets shot down. What if I try to
call the motherfucker up?—Kim Jong-un, right? Does he speak English? Who has
ever even talked to him? Is he a maniac like everybody says? Or could I just say,
“Listen, man, just tell me what you want.” What does he want? Did anybody ask?
It can’t just all be ‘Heil! Heil! Heil!’ Right? He’s got some bigger dreams than that!
Me? Reince, you have to promise not to tattletale to Bannon, but I’ll tell you. In all
honestly, it’s just for Barron or Melania—I’d even settle for Obama—just to deep,
deep, deep down love exactly who I am. I’ll bet you Kim Jong-un is just the same
as I am. Right? Believe me. Call him up. Guy can’t be that bad. He likes rockets,
right? My Barron likes them too. He has a club, they go to Central Park to shoot
them off, they have a blast! Believe me! Maybe we can bribe him—latest missiles.
Not with nukes. Of course. But big ones, better than the ones the Russians have,
and better than the Chinese. Minuteman. The best we have—but harmless. Duds.
So he could shoot them off. Might work. Or send him Norman Mailer—if he’s still
alive. Is Norman still alive? To write a big biography. Might love that too. I would!
You know? “The greatest leader since sliced bread.” Is that so crazy? When you
really think about it? Am I right? Reince, you would like that, wouldn’t you? If you
were North Korea’s Splendid Oarsmen, or whatever the fuck they’re calling him—
why not, if we can get him on our side? Plus, slide a little food in there, as well?
Might piss the Chinese off. A great idea, Reince! Now we’re North Korea’s friend.
Call up that Exxon guy and see if they’ve got someone there who speaks Korean.
They could translate back and forth—but not a leaker! No more leakers! Right?
No leaks. They’re bad. Believe me. Get this North Korean asshole on the phone,
and let me talk to him. The Navy SEALS are fine, but if they botched it up—what?
Bad news. Bad, bad news, for everyone. I bet he’s even something of a Trump fan,
right? Celebrity Apprentice. Or my book. Korea bought a million copies of it. More.
I LOVE Korean food. No, not the dogs—no cats—no pets of any kind. But kimchi.
Ever tried kimchi? Korean barbeque? What’s not to love? Tell Rex to set a call up!
Murphy Oil Soap
Murphy’s Oil Soap?
I don’t like Murphy’s Oil Soap. It smells bad. Right?
Just Murphy? Reince! Who cares? Get rid of it!
It’s hard enough to pay attention to this rubbish
you keep piling on my desk, without that odor too.
Get one without perfume. Saltwater soap—good stuff, I know.
But no perfume, okay?
This whole place stinks!
The bathroom towels stink. My bedsheets stink.
I want the word out: everything scent-free.
That poor Obama—look, he was outnumbered, three to one.
But that’s all changed now.
It’s just me. One male. Not metrosexual.
So all the fragrances have got to go. Don’t even use them up.
If something’s rotten in the State of Denmark, I say let it stink.
Islamic Terrorism. Right?
We’ve got to face things as they really are.
I don’t like Murphy soap, and so that’s that.
Your own cologne is on thin ice as well.
I have to tell you. Jury’s out on it. We’ll have to see.
Our deepest brain. You’ve read that, right? Like insects.
We say, “Oh, I trust him,
probably because of this or that he told me.”
But believe me, in reality it’s just the way he smells.
The things I notice about people, Reince, just from their scent
would absolutely blow your mind.
The foolproof test.
My nose is, like, the best of anybody’s you will ever, ever meet.
I smell-test everything. I promise you. By instinct.
Like a sixth sense, right?—
except it’s not the sixth, it’s one of one through five.
The average person doesn’t pay attention to it, though.
Or fogs it all up with perfume.
I tell Melania she’s not allowed to wear or even use
hair products or deodorant or soap that has synthetic scent.
It’s in the pre-nup. Really. I can promise you.
“I like the way you smell without perfume at all.”
But she’s afraid
I’ll notice something I don’t like?
Hint of disloyalty or trace of fear?
The Army guys? Oh, Lord! The generals and the admirals?
The worst! Men’s men supposedly,
but walk into a room of them, you think you’re in a flower shop.
Believe me. With the fingernails, all polished, manicured.
Expensive French jobs.
Why we never win?
Too many scented products for the hair and skin.
The buck stops here. Who said that. Ike? No? Truman?
One of them. Like Bannon says, a culture war.
We have to turn the tide!
So Murphy is as good as anything to be blow the trumpet.
Cannon to the left of them! Theirs not to reason why!
The White House butler on the line right now.
Trust me. It’s time.
The dust from which I rose,
the water on which Jesus walked,
and basis on which living rests—
all ghostly on my breath.
Instead, Barack Obama smirks.
On steady legs he gazes
straight at me with sturdy eyes—
and in his umber irises I trust.
I can’t stop obsessing on Obama, Reince. He lived here, did this, before I did. Right?
It feels like I have sloppy seconds now. I told Melania one day she’s not as good
in bed as Marla and Ivana. So believe me, now I know exactly how she felt. Okay?
It was a very, very nasty thing to tell her. It was true. But it was such a nasty thing.
She yelled, so angry no one’s ever seen! She started clawing at my goddamn face!
So that’s what I am now. Just lashing out at you, Steve, Jared, Kellyanne, the press.
It hurts. It really hurts, Reince. Very terribly.
I blame Obama. What did he do, though? I know he isn’t sabotaging me. Or spying.
He’s too “good” to do that, too much dignity. Which makes me even more extremely mad!
He’s got the gift of lucky charms. So suave. So smart. So presidential. “Loving Daddy”!
Do you feel him always sucking up the air? That isn’t noble. Where are all the warts?
Don’t people say that women like it if you show them where your imperfections are?
So where the hell are his? I want the FBI to tell me one immoral thing Obama’s done.
One real, live, shitty thing that I can tweet.
I’d love to get into his wife Michelle’s—pussy! It’s called pussy, right? Why can’t I say it?
I would love to see her face—”defiled”! Right? Not oh-so-tender like her husband is.
The pain. She thinks she’s strong enough to fight me off, but no. A big surprise.
Believe me, darling, you’re not strong enough. You were a fool to think you were.
You always underestimate your enemy. The same fault that The Great Obama has.
Now look. I’ve pushed myself all over you. Oh, this is fun, my breath alone is killing you.
And now my stinking white dick muscles in.
Don’t look at me like that, Reince—don’t pretend you wouldn’t do her too.
Okay. Believe me. Sure—let’s talk about the health care stuff. Obama care. Repeal it!
Trump care now. Nobody likes it—right? It isn’t good enough. It’s not as good as his.
But his is down the tubes. Believe me. Gone. So mine is what our Congress will approve.
And people will accept. They’d better like it. Read my lips. Trump care. It isn’t better,
but it’s stronger than Obama’s was. I won. So meet the new boss. Am I right, Reince?
To the victor go the spoils—“fuck her pussy.”
Spit and Image
At a certain stage during roasting,
have Donald Trump complexions.
At a certain stage of high treason,
his skulker cronies
drip their sweat of condor grease.
The IRS said: By law we are prohibited from releasing
trains into the tunnel
Screw’s censored 2013 wall calendar
footage from the show
a profile of the terrorist
what he claimed was art
the transcript of what he said
90 puppies to be gassed
assloads of Help replies on Epoch threads
dribs and drabs
what’s covered by copyright
news of the war
voluminous reports based on guesswork
wild hogs onto the beach
the full names of the babies and their mothers
Ali’s own version
an emergency brake that kept the bus safely parked
any and all records
without explicit authorization
from the candidate in question
I was an ass my whole life, why stop now?
I’ve left behind a nuisance-making trust
to unearth papers, every other January 1,
directing my survivors to re-bury me—
and in the process, dropping bombs
to pick new fights and open up old sores.
Alert the Press. Announce my wish.
Unearth the gold-trimmed casket once again.
The military sends another color guard,
my TV ratings soaring higher every time.
How many times, nobody knows but me.
The speculation starts in mid-December.
Does it slightly overshadow Christmas?
I don’t know. It does out-holler Chanukah.
A hundred disillusioned Trumpites flock
and mock the still-dumbfounded Democrats.
I won. I win. I won. I win. I won.
They’ll never keep me in the grave for long.
John Adams, Warren Harding—1 to 44,
my predecessors all willed dicey DNA to me.
What I Love About This Portrait (Trump Tower, 1/15/17)
What I love about this portrait is
it bares Melania’s unhappiness and anger—
even cruelty, like a cornered boar—
while I’m the cat who swallowed the canary,
just slightly cruel, just slightly showing pain.
And what I really like about it?
Oh, she hates it! Doesn’t like that snarl,
caught looking like the total bitch she is.
She says, “I’m not like that at all.”
But I say, “Photographs don’t lie.
A camera is a window to the soul.”
I have a copy in the White House too,
and in the vestibule at Mar-a-Lago.
Everywhere she goes, I want Melania
to be reminded that I have the upper hand.
They’re all her cages, right?
This picture totally captures that. So well.
Don’t cry for her. Believe me,
she is every bit as vicious as she looks.
But viciousness is not enough.
To win a lot, you have to outmaneuver
all your enemies. The Art of War, okay?
One of the most impressive books. The Prince.
You know. A virtuoso of deceptiveness.
My mom used to take us to the dentist’s. In his waiting room there was a big, white plastic stool shaped like a tooth with four roots. It also had this long gray crack in it, and I remember thinking: “Wow, it’s just like real teeth.” It was like a warning to us: “Brush your teeth very well—or this is what will happen to them.”
Nobody likes the dentist, am I right? Believe me, nobody does. And the reason nobody does is that the dentist is all about everything getting worse. In other words, the best you can do is hold the line—no cavities. While the worst you can do is all kinds of cavities. It’s about mostly failure. So nobody ever really likes that.
Once you understand that—that everything usually gets worse, very rarely will get better—then you are a Republican, alright? A very, very pessimistic person! You learned your lessons at the dentist’s office, while the Democrats learned maybe in the supermarket, or playing with the Lincoln Logs. See what I mean? Very different.
That’s why I like Democrats. But the Democrat’s problem is that they still don’t understand the basic lesson of the dentist’s plastic tooth stool for the children to sit on. It’s plastic, okay? “Made in Japan.” The reason it has a crack in it is because it’s very cheaply made. It’s made by people who don’t know about children.
Two birds were just flapping in front of a wall for over a minute,
they were shadow-fighting with each other—they both loved it!
There was no other reason to be flapping there like that, right?
It was one of those walls to practice hitting tennis balls against.
So that’s what they call diplomacy. First you find an empty wall.
And the two countries flap, pretending to scare each other off.
Then they say “Okay, that’s enough of that,” and they fly away.
They were like sparrows, I think. Two little teeny birds like that.
Do I get “lonely,” Kellyanne? I wouldn’t use that word.
I wouldn’t mind some company. I know what you’re suggesting. Right?
A lady friend, a gentle touch,
a Monica Lewinsky of my own, but more discrete,
a little more professional?
And I would trust you to arrange it. You know that. Believe me.
10 or 15 years ago I would’ve leapt. And my Melania is fine with it.
I think she sort of, kind of, actually suggested it herself a couple times.
But when you’re 70, the time alone is precious too.
Your pleasures of the flesh run more to regularity than any excess,
and the last thing anybody wants to do is stir up hemorrhoids or acid reflux.
I’m no different. What was it that Shakespeare said? The Jew?
“You prick us and we bleed”? At 70, if I prick them—I bleed!
Not good! I stick to Diet Coke, potato chips and cable news.
No, go on home. Where do you live these days? Do you commute?
Your husband and your kids—are you a parenthood evader, too?
Oh no, don’t cry! Mascara! Bad! We made our deals, we both did,
with the devil. I don’t think there’s any point in in looking back. Do you?
That bridge is burnt. One time, a lot of years ago—too many years—
I asked this girl I met, who was a therapist, is it too late to change?
Was it too late to, you know, be a better dad, a better husband,
care about my fellow man, and all of that?
Know what she said? “We only get one soul, Boss.”
She was one of the contestants on Apprentice. Called me Boss.
She said, “Most starfish can regenerate lost legs,
but even they can’t bring a dead soul back to life.”
That wasn’t what I hoped to hear, and so I fired her that day.
“You blew your one chance here.”
That bitch. But she was right. She’d told the truth. She knew.
I have this image in my head, it’s almost like abortion—
you know, if she puts the baby out, that’s it, she can’t undo it
even if she wants to more than anything on Earth.
I watched that happen once. One of the girls I married later
said, “I wish I’d had that baby.” But I told her, “If you had it,
we would not have gotten married! What you’re crying over isn’t real.”
She said I didn’t understand, and I chose not to tell her
that I did—I’d done the same thing with my soul.
Which is exactly why I’d said:
“You have to get rid of the pregnancy. Or else!”
It’s like: One day a guy comes up, I’m wearing golf shorts,
sitting waiting for my foursome, and he’s walking two large dogs,
which don’t belong at golf clubs in the first place.
And so while he says “A great day” or whatever,
this one dog is busy slobbering my leg. Keeps licking it! And so I said,
“I’m going to put my sand wedge several inches into that dog’s skull
unless I count to ten and you’re so far away, you’re out of reach.”
Marla called it my crown of gold.
When I get called home to Glory,
it’ll already be there on my head.
She had very lovely hair, herself,
and I took that as a compliment,
because she was really into hair.
People make jokes. So, let them.
You think it’s a little bit like Elvis?
That’s another good compliment.
Thank you. It’s not actually Elvis,
or Elvis-like, but I thank you for it.
That man was a major superstar!
Hey, they don’t even make a wig
like this! Sure! Go ahead! Touch!
Lots of people touch it. So, wow.
That means it’s pretty great hair,
if everyone wants to touch it, no?
I bet even St. Peter asks to do it.
Every time, even my barber asks
if he should shorten it, just a little.
I tell him, “When the time comes,
believe me, I’ll tell you: ‘Shorten.’
I’ll tell you: ‘Make it like Beckham
or maybe Clooney.’ Just not yet.”
The Twitter Hacker
took the 127th character away!
You couldn’t fill it in,
it stayed blank,
didn’t matter what
you typed or pasted,
couldn’t fool it.
Next day, same thing:
minute 22 of TV shows!
That fucking Guccifer,
the Russian had us
by the balls and pussies,
every one of us.
Hell, we could work around it,
tweet with one less tap
and build dead minutes
but who wanted to?
“Bow down to Putin!”
on every social network.
Are you kidding me,
we couldn’t do it fast enough,
he was our daddy,
we admitted it
to anyone who asked.
Except for Trump,
who angrily refused.
O, now we finally understood
why we’d elected him!
He raged! He stormed!
He fired off a string of tweets
as if there was no gap,
refused to bend a knee
or bow his head!
The Russian threatened
Trump just laughed.
The population begged
him to make peace,
but he just sneered.
Cell phone disruptions?
He dared them:
“Make my goddam day.”
They took the stolen time
and gave it all
to Maher and SNL;
he winced, but didn’t cave.
“I will not fail or falter,
not weaken or tire.”
_ _ _ _ _-loss
I was forced to diet, right?
Dropped 1/3 of my brain.
“Feel better?” people asked. Well, no, not better. Less.
My doctor says that’s natural, since I took off the equivalent of one whole leg.
It leaves an ache—like empty trouser legs give amputees a beating.
Parasympathetic. Not quite real, a little fake.
Since it was only nasty lard—
the belly, man-boobs, armpit wattles, ugly folds around the groin, a portmanteau of flab—
nobody offered prayers or pumped me up with dope or tried to staunch the gore.
If part of you was garbage, then the rest of you is garbage.
Though the fat I lost was killing me, imagine for a moment
doctors, nurses, candy-stripers on the rehab ward exclaiming,
“Lost your leg? Feel better now?”
Poor Purple Heart recipients!
I shed a shopping basket heaped with blubber,
and then, yes, felt colder, slightly meaner, narcissism bared, condensed.
Felt like a cat all wrapped up in its own concerns,
who doesn’t give a hoot about the sacrifice or suffering of others—simply doesn’t care.
Look—my hand. It turned to rubber overnight. How horrible!
I think I may have slept on it.
That executive order signing photo-op is off.
This whole thing, Reince, Top Secret too.
Yes, call the doc, but don’t say why.
Just get him in here quickly—yesterday!
The Press will go to town if they find out.
“Trump Stroke!” “Trump Dying, Inch by Inch!”
I “Okay-Googled” it. That was embarrassing,
Scarlett Johansson purring back.
You saw that movie. Right? That voice. A 10!
She supposed it was Friday Night Palsy—
conking out drunk, then sleeping too long on your arm.
A form of Radial Neuropathy. Unfair, Reince!
I don’t even drink…unless Obama’s shadow butler
slipped a mickey in my soda. Sad.
I read about the Club des Chefs des Chefs. In London.
We have guys who taste our food. And Putin too. Who’s mine?
Have him resign. I’ll bring my own guy in.
Ask Jared. He’ll know who to get.
Until then, Mickey D’s—
believe me, you can always trust their food.
Not like that Mexican Chipotle. Very bad!
I’ll start to take naps. Stay up overnight.
The doctor’s here? Good. Let him in.
Hello! Come look. My hand is numb. Can’t lift it up.
You don’t know much about Neuropathy?
A specialist? Fine! Hurry! Call my doctor too, Reince—
Harold Bornstein. Him at least I trust.
I’ve always gone to him! My dad did too.
These Navy people? Look at Admiral Howard.
Not so great, right? Looks cadaverous.
She’ll scare old Putin shitless, though!
Those eyes look like The Walking Dead!
That tub of bolts he calls an aircraft carrier won’t stand a chance!
Get Howard on Line 2.
I’ll show the liberal press who’s soft on Russia—
make them wish they never asked!
And I want Libya’s oil too.
If we can’t get Iraq’s, we’ll plunder Libya’s to build my Wall.
Why not? I’ll route it through our shell in Baja.
Okay, so set a new one up then—
better yet, Nieto can, the useless little peacock cunt.
Believe me. He’ll cave in.
He’d better, or he wakes one morning to find Admiral Howard
sailing into Veracruz aboard the Gerald Ford!
How long until this specialist arrives?
Goddam Obamacare! Disaster, right?
Might Makes Right Mind
I have a mental illness?
What does that even mean?
It means you don’t like how another person thinks—
not very many who are self-described, believe me.
Eye of the beholder, right?
No—zero mental illness.
I’m a lot more sane than Hillary!
You saw her drop.
A nervous breakdown.
And she aged—what do you think? at least 10 years.
I gained 10 pounds, okay?
Not even 8.
But Hillary—out like a light.
We saw it.
Compare me to—who else?
Everybody always loves comparing me to him.
He’s got the mental illness!
Ask 100 people who he is,
you’ll get 100 different answers!
But with me?—I’m “what you see is what you get.”
That’s mental illness, where you’re fake, two faced.
What do they call that?
Sally Field, right?—Sybil?
Me, though?—no—fake news!
I beat him, right?
What do you call that mental illness he had?
Pathological Energy Problem?
They always say the guy who won the war is nuts.
Joe Stalin. Caesar. Alexander.
And I won.
So call me anything you like.
Doc My Cock
Doc—my cock is disappearing.
Even if I suck my gut in
I can’t see a thing down there.
It’s underneath this ugly belt of flab.
I still can pee—it’s not like I can’t aim—
but I just need to see it when I do!
I want to get that fatty slab removed.
No, this time you can skip the STD tests—
I don’t really use it that way anymore.
Still love to kiss—a big, big kisser.
But the cock stays zipped.
No oral either, no.
I’m 70, alright? A married man.
Yet, it’s important to me that I have a view.
You heard what Marco said about my hands.
You think there’s truth to it?
I always wondered but I never asked.
My cock is sort of shaped
just like my fingers, isn’t it—
it’s thick, but on the shorter side?
Is that coincidence in your experience?
Is that a fungus on my little toes?
The nails are almost falling off.
You have a cream for it? That’s fabulous, okay?
But losing 40 pounds to see my prick again?
You’re kidding me.
There has to be another way.
I’m too old for the surgery, my ass!
Every man’s cock is his castle.
You know that—it calls the shots.
When we go knocking on the Pearly Gates
Saint Peter orders: “Drop and flash.”
He either whistles in respect or laughs.
He’s seen them all.
Or does he just say, “Show your hands”?
thanks to Trish Saunders
I’m sprinkling Comet Cleanser
on the mess
Trump left around the toilet,
when he saunters in
and starts to croon—
I want to marry a White housekeeper
And keep her company.
I want to marry a White housekeeper
And live by the side of the sea.
I’ll polish her lamps by the light of day
So the ships at night can find their way.
I want to marry a White housekeeper.
Won’t that be okay?
He grins and waits.
I smile back.
I want to tell him, “Fuck yourself,”
but this is one job
I don’t want to lose,
however cruel it’s been
to keep this house
for the absurdly nice Obamas,
and now him—
grin plastered on his face
as if expecting
Chorus Two from me
or that I, flattered, will reply:
“I’d love it if we married,
I strive to focus on the pee
but he won’t let me be.
and very possibly arouses him.
“You like that song?” he sneers.
“I prize that one!
Clockwork Orange, right?
Bad Stanley, though—
“Lolita. Eyes Wide Shut.
Soft porn. A lot of strange,
strange love, believe me!
Bad, bad man.
A very scary man.”
He stands, grins, waits.
I scrub as if
my life depended on it.
“Miss,” he says,
“I didn’t come in here to talk.”
I blush, humiliated,
wipe the seat off quickly,
“I’m sorry, sir,” I murmur,
brush against him as I leave.
The New American Pismire
Here. This is exactly what I want to do.
You see that big red Tootsie Roll Pop?
And that brand new ant nest next to it?
The candy obviously was such a big bonanza,
the ant president decided it made sense to shorten the commute.
The excavated dirt does double duty as retaining ring,
to keep the lollipop right where it is.
Warnings are sprayed all around,
and tons of new eggs laid—big league!
See all the soldiers with the huge jaws? No one dares attack.
That cellophane Cigarillo wrapper blows over
and the brain trust deep inside the nest commands the worker ants
to fill it up with ballast dirt
and starts considering what innovative uses
the already booming hive can make of it.
So that’s exactly what I want to do!
Beware the dog, but also seize the day and let the good times roll.
Fracked oil—we and Canada right now are kings of it.
We have to seize the opportunity before the window shuts.
If a couple of the eggs or worker ants turn slightly red from it?
Who cares—that’s life. Do they complain?
The queen bee ant said, “This is where our welfare lies.”
The nest is strong and prosperous.
That’s all they care about.
Fascist? Nazi. Maoist. Stalinist. Totalitarian.
Sure, there’s a lot of different names that we could call it,
but the fact remains.
There’s work for everyone—there’s food for everyone.
They have the strongest army in the world.
The Republican Party
“The Republican Party? Years of hatred and distrust. Long before me. Look, you can say what you want, but there are years of problems, great hatred and distrust, and you know, I came into the middle of it.” – President Trump, 3/24/17
When someone comes into the middle of a party,
there’s an elephant in the room that you ignore
at your own risk. If everybody turns their head
the other way, sticks it in the sand or never lifts
a finger to deodorize the discharge, hard rain’s
gonna fall, shit hits the fan, wolves at the door,
a can of worms, or octopus’s garden in the sea!
When someone comes into the middle of a party,
so great hatred and disgust, the ladies scream
and squeamish squires all denounce the churl,
the bouncer’s called, and cops are on the horn!
“That boor.” “A nouveau riche.” “A lifelong lout.”
Was it self-stimulation, sexual assault, or both?
Oh, “For he is the jolly good fellow!” will suffice.
That was the Wheaties chairman. Wheaties, Reince!
He says he wants to put my face on the iconic orange box!
Move over, Steph-en Curry—time for Doo-nald Trump!
Ken Powell. CEO. Big Harvard, Stanford guy.
He ran a yogurt company, I think, but that’s okay—Yoplait.
We can forgive him, right? I absolutely hate that gunk.
I said, “I’m not an athlete. I pitched pretty well
in high school, that was it. Some soccer, football too.
But baseball—I was #1.” He said, “But you can run.”
I said, “Can presidents go on?” He said, “You’d be the first”!
“You’re all our kids’ first choice! At General Mills,
we always give consumers what they want.”
Should I say yes? Is it an ethics violation,
do you think—emoluments? I wouldn’t get a dime for it,
but that publicity is worth a lot. Call Jared. He’ll know.
Or Ivanka, if he’s busy—anyone but Kellyanne.
My mug on Wheaties boxes? Great thing for the kids.
A very great thing for the kids. Strong bones, be president.
Call Spicer too—tell him to look through all my photographs
and pick one out that’s, you know, inspirational.
Breakfast of Champions. Believe me. Sandy Trump.
It’s true. They thought I’d be another Koufax. Honest injun,
I was that good. But then—money called! Big money.
Didn’t have to start out in the Minor Leagues.
What do they say? That the sincerest form of love—
or something else—is flattery? Oh, now I absolutely
want to help out General Mills! Ask Ross to find a way.
I wonder if that Kim Jong-un in North Korea—
He played basketball! I read that or I heard it on TV.
So if they put him on their Asian box? It just might work.
Remember Bobby Richardson? I begged my mom
to let me cut his picture off the empty orange box and hang it
on the bedroom wall. She started buying Raisin Bran.
Makes sure we offer Wheaties here. I’d love to poke
that asshole Curry in the eye. What makes these jocks
big experts now in politics. Tell Powell I said yes.
Air Force One
I miss my plane. First off, it’s bigger.
They say smaller, but it’s really much, much bigger—
where the sun don’t shine.
Like me. It’s true. And ritzier.
Gold seat belts, bathroom fixtures.
Real Carrara marble. Rolls Royce engines. Gold silk bedrooms.
Air Force One is really very nice, but it’s not home.
I call my plane a T-Bird, but this jumbo jet is an Econoline.
It’s well equipped but cheaper.
No offense to the Air Force
but I tell my guests that Trump Force One is deluxe in the sky—
We ought to build a Navy One atomic submarine
In case the H-bombs fall.
Same radiation shields, the whole 9 yards.
All loaded up with lots of dvds
and—you know—little girls to grow into adults.
We’ll stay submerged until I’ve died from natural causes.
Just kidding, Reince!
The food would run out way too soon.
They’d have to send Seal frogmen out to spear bonitos with harpoons!
Fish-and-seaweed tuna salad.
No one wants to live like that—
although the President would have a stockpile of potato chips.
Or Rocketship One—suspended animation—
shot off toward the edges of the galaxy
in hopes of being woken up someday by aliens.
The opposite of Take Me to Your Leader, he’s flown in!
And then I’d be, like, “Have you heard of Donald Trump?”
“Is there TV?”
When I was young and sent away to military school,
I always daydreamed of that late spring morning
I’d return and teach my father what a big mistake he’d made.
I’d be in uniform
and point my M16A1 right at his beady eyes
until he begged me to forgive.
Found Poem – Russian Federation
briefing, Ministry of State spokeswoman, 23.03.17
We’d like to say that if the practice of leaked information
concerning not just the United States but also Russia
persists in becoming a new Washington custom
there will come a day when the media publishes leaks
about things the Americans asked us to keep secret
during President Barack Obama’s 8-year administration.
Believe us, there could be a titillating revelation!
We might drop a few adverse surprises on each other!
I detest green—
wear dark-tinted shades to alter trees and grass to nickel lead.
I am amazed to read how that relentless, lying chlorophyll is
slowly gassing us,
100 hues all whispering
“We do no harm,” while secretly beguiling us to water it
and spraying us with quasi-oxygen called ozone-xxx.
I put my Ray-Bans on, apace.
This protective vert-less vista
harks me back to olden, Nordic Ice Age panoramas
whose environmental threats
were all predominantly saber-tooth and mammoth-tusk!
That air was very pure, not vilely processed yet by so much
while all those antelope we celebrated on our cave walls
kept the herb in check,
or so we told ourselves,
while verdure tricked weak human minds to cultivate it!
We became its slaves, nursemaids, provisioners! Race-traitors
sang its beauties—
not me, though!
I closely crop the grasslands into penal stretches one inch high
with special lockdown “greens”—
and all those bad Plant Kingdom hombres screech!
So lumber! Overgraze!
God said “Subdue it,” Don’t forget that. Okay? Am I right?
All the houses were the same, including ours—
well, there were two, three layout variations.
And the shrubs in front were all alike.
Conformity for all of us was very, very big—
back in that day, it was the god of Queens,
except for one thing that my mother did herself—bright yellow door!
I doubt house-painters even did such crazy things.
It was unorthodox.
My father couldn’t stand it!
When he got home—used to come home every day for lunch—
he almost tore her head off, neighbors said.
They heard the shrieking from across the street.
She didn’t care.
That yellow door was her—I don’t know what you’d call it—her rebellion,
one thing she refused to let her husband rule,
and so we always had this crazy yellow door.
And people talked about it—said things to him.
“Fred, your wife—is something wrong?”
But then, outside the family circle, he defended her.
“You got a problem with the color yellow, Al?
My Mary don’t like red. This is America.”
One time he claimed that red was Communist,
while forest green—the other color people painted doors—
reminded him of Hitler Germany.
But all along, he hated it.
He brought it up at dinnertime, that he’d decided to repaint it—
but he never did. He didn’t dare. “My door,” mom said.
One spring, she put another coat—same brilliant yellow.
Times were changing,
and now people said it was “a hippie door,”
but it was never that at all—
it was a finger she kept stuck in my unbending father’s eye.
The spilled blood begs the stricken President, “I’d like back in.”
“You’ve been exposed to germs!” the magnate says. “Impure!”
“Your handkerchief was laundered—ironed—sharply creased.”
“Too bad, dolt! Say goodbye! It’s straight to Bio-Hazards now!”
A steward brings a Ziploc, drops the hanky in and whisks it off.
Trump slathers on Purell, and mirror-checks the smitten nostril.
“This is the last time I put up with that. You listening? Capiche?”
U.S.S.S. (Overnight – Residence)
“Wrong!” retaliates Trump. “Unbelievably wrong!”
The USSS agent posted at the bedroom door
tries to imagine what the newsman said—
the thought occurs to her to sync a live-stream via cell
to what Trump’s watching,
but she’d lose her job if anybody caught her spying
on the Presidential brain.
“Wrong!” he yells again.
She sneaks a peek at Twitter, @realDonaldTrump,
and wonders if it’s wrong to use her inside access now
to move her bet up on the DTTwitterpool.
She can’t resist. She signs in, puts $10 on 10:45 tonight.
But Trump surprises, disappoints her once again.
He holds off launching until early morning, 6:15.
“Fake News!” he tweets for the 100th time.
A grass guy wins the pool.
Trump’s less a creature of caprice than habit—
tug-o-war between the two, but habit has the upper hand.
She’s learning him,
plunks ten more dollars on tomorrow 6:15AM.
It really doesn’t matter what the newscasts said,
the venom of his sleep will need assuaging
first thing in the morning,
very likely from the throne,
before the toothbrush, shave and 7-minute shower.
Skivvies Privies Quizzing – 10:15 PM
Which staff will lay their hands and eyes
on my discarded underpants?
Find out the chain of custody.
Don’t ask me why I’m asking you.
They are my private clothes.
Go get a list of White House servants.
Its extremely need-to-know.
The CIA, Dems, CNN and Russians
will do anything to get the dirt on me.
Thanks to Anna Ruiz
I love soap.
When my mother and my teachers
used to wash my mouth with soap, I always loved it.
I would tell them, “That’s delicious.” You know. “More.”
And it infuriated them, but it was true.
I like the taste, I like the foaminess.
What’s not to like? But they would put it anyway.
There was one I didn’t like. I never told them. Dial.
So disgusting. And my father used it in the shower.
Sort of disinfectant. So they claimed.
Meat-packers made it. Did you know that? Armour.
But I hated it.
The other ones I liked. Safeguard.
Remember Prell? Loved Prell! And Lava.
Everybody’s, “Oh! Don’t lie.”
What planet did they come from? Everybody lies.
A lie’s a tool to make a fact you want come true.
I told my kids, “Lie all you want.”
I’m proud of them. They even get me sometimes.
Great, great skill.
The only thing you never lie about is birth control.
Believe me. When the woman says, “I’m on the pill,”
that better be the truth!
Or if the male swears he went in for a vasectomy.
The rest is fair game. Lie your stinking ass off!
If you get caught, lie again.
It helps if you enjoy the taste of soap, like me.
That was a big, big gift.
White House Dog
A White House dog? No thank you.
If I want a dog, I’ll call Bette Midler. No, I’m only kidding.
She’s got quite a set of pipes on her. Believe me.
I would never insult Bette.
But I don’t want a dog. Or any pet.
They’re germy, dirty little creatures,
and I’m really not your cuddly type.
Look, Eric has two dogs. Two beagles.
One had been a stray but they adopted him.
Disgusting—between you and me—
the way they fawn on those two animals.
Their “kids,” they say. That’s sick.
Big waste of time, in my opinion. Half-perverted in a way.
And plus the hair all over everything.
I had a little snake when I was young.
It was a red-tail boa that ate mice.
I had to catch them—I used glue traps
and I had to pull them off with kitchen tongs,
and drop them in. By then, they couldn’t really run away.
So it was easy hunting for the snake.
But it was good fun. Love it.
If I had another pet, I’d get a falcon. Big, fierce bird.
I’d let it kill those pigeons. Hear them?
How can anybody in here work?
Believe me, it would earn its keep.
I saw a YouTube. Some guy had one.
He’d attack it with these drones, the falcon always won.
A really, really noble bird.
“Oh, Donald Trump is cruel!” Give me a fucking break.
Such hypocrites. A free range chicken.
Gag me. “So humanely killed.”
That’s not the way things operate.
You know that. Don’t you, Reince? I’m sure you do.
You guys had boxers back home in Wisconsin.
Now, just me. The Big Dog, right?
You tried to make me Sit and Stay.
Housebroken. Fetch. So lovable. My wives all did that too.
But then they learned it was impossible.
It’s something that will never happen.
I don’t want you petting me.
I don’t want table scraps or Alpo.
I can hunt my food. I like the blood still warm.
So no. No White House dog.
My little Barron even hates them too.
He likes machines. Computers.
Plus you know I’d be too cruel. I’d kick it, curse at it.
I have no sympathy for helpless things.
When I see something groveling, my instinct is to hurt it.
White House rule: No pets allowed.
Obamacare’s imploding. You know that.
Death spiral. Everybody says. Believe me.
Once that disaster’s dead, they’ll all come crawling to me
begging for my shitty policies
and then I’ll stick it to them even worse.
Americans are just like truly stupid women who I’ve known.
They never realize when they have it good—
complain I’m mean and inattentive and whatever,
then go hook themselves up
with some major league bad hombres.
They say the perfect is the enemy of good enough, okay?
So nothing is a bed of roses,
and the real choice usually is bad or terrible.
The one the House of Representatives made—terrible.
Now they must sleep in it.
So sick. The Senate too. You know that. I give up.
It’s going down the tubes, which I don’t like to see,
but that’s the way democracy’s supposed to work.
If people pick dumb representatives,
they have that right.
How do we know Obama doesn’t have the Oval Office bugged? Is there a Russian bath-house we could go to and sit naked to talk privately? I had a great one in New York! You know, the fat old woman. No way anybody tried to bug that place! All steam! You left your phone outside, it wouldn’t work in there. So you could tell the person with you what was really on your mind, Reince.
Yes. You’d be amazed the things they bug! Your tie. Your comb. Your shoes. That so-called “football” that my military aide is always carrying? He’d have to wait out by the register, so would the Secret Service. They’re not stripping naked, are they? No, believe me. So a good old-fashioned Russian bath-house may be just the place we need to hatch our plans, so they don’t leak.
Obama’s sneakier than ever, if you ask me. All those pictures waterboarding in Tahiti and with Richard Branson? Oh, I guarantee you, they’re all staged. They send the photos out and then he quickly towels off and back inside the Learjet for black ops and dirty tricks. The Indonesians, Kenyans, British, CIA—are doing all the dirty work for him. And I’ve got Kelly Anne and you.
But one false move, we got him. Teeny-weenie line of coke—or weed. We have our sources and our methods too. One typo on his birth certificate or brief encounter of the dirty kind with one of Larry Ellison’s ball caddies! Then we lock him up. His girlfriend Hillary is small potatoes. He can sit there in his cell and talk about my tweeting all he wants. I’m in the catbird seat!
Spy vs. Spy. Remember that, Reince? In Mad Magazine? It’s very true. It’s not the Russians vs. USA, it’s Democrats against Republicans. It’s all-out war, no rules, no prisoners, kill or be killed, Schumer v. McConnell, Ryan v. Pelosi, Pence v. Biden—that’s the undercard. Headliner is Obama vs. Trump! Poor Clinton never made to to the ring. She didn’t know what hit her, right?
Muhammed Ali liked me and respected me a lot. And that was mutual. He was the greatest, not the smartest. But he always said that I was both. He said, “You know how fast I am? I turn the light switch by the door off and I’m in my bed before the room’s dark.” No one bugged Muhammed Ali. Much too fast. Stung like a bee and floated like a butterfly. He said I was a lot like him.
So when you’re in the schvitz? It doesn’t matter who you are. You’re just another clump of flesh. Believe me. No one’s like, “Is that a dick?” There’s more respect. You’re equal there. That’s one place even Dems won’t bug. But watch out for the rings. Alright? The pinkie rings. The dons. Nice haircut, great shave, these humongous rings. Just keep on walking to the other room!
You don’t talk politics, but if you did, there wouldn’t be Obama people there. Believe me. They all go to Starbucks. If you want to spy on liberals, just sit in Starbucks. Blah blah blah. But they have wifi, right? That’s means you’re very bugable. That’s one big tip-off. Internet. Forget the shoes and ties. It’s like you’re talking in a microphone. It spits a transcript out!
The other place? Out in the water. In your bathing suit. You wouldn’t catch me dead there, though. You’ve seen the fishing boats, right? They just empty out their toilets in the water. Then you swim in it. And all the other little bugs and crap the ocean’s full of nowadays. I swam at Rockaway when I was young, but not since then. Not even in Hawaii, where my Trump Waikiki is.
No, I don’t trust the steam-room here. Have you been listening to me, Reince? Bugged, bugged, bugged, bugged. Obama’s got the biggest ears. Okay? You listening, Barack Hussein? I hope you’re listening, I only have one thing to say to you. Release your birth certificate—original. And college applications. Let the country see your bad, bad lies! And your Michelle? A 6, at best.
No, I say “hose.”
They’re nylon ribbed.
When I play golf, it’s cotton—“socks.”
My father taught me if you’re wearing cufflinks, “hose.”
Thin nylon hose that’s always black, above the calf.
I always follow that.
It’s cufflinks only.
I’ll buy three, then keep the spare
tucked in my coat’s watch-pocket. See?
What good is your replacement button
that you get with ordinary dress shirts?
Are you going to stop and sew it on?
Ties are overrated.
If you think a tie is going to impress your adversary,
then why bother, he’s a moron, right?
But if he’s crafty,
then he’s onto you and he’s suspicious
that your numbers aren’t really there.
Men’s handkerchief is not a decoration.
It’s a necessary tool.
It has to be immaculately white and sharply creased
and at the ready to be whipped out in a second
if there is a spill
or, God forbid, a nosebleed.
Hose, cufflinks, tie, and handkerchief.
Believe me, they’re four little things
where clothing truly makes the man.
They’re not the only things that matter,
but a foot up for the lad
who wants to be a cut above.
I’m one of trillions of Archaea who inhabit Donald Trump’s gut.
Methanobrevibacter smithii, to be exact—who make your farts.
Don’t look askance, though. To produce one mole of methane,
we consume 5 moles of hydrogen and CO2, reducing gas 4/5.
Despite our multitude, and relative remoteness of our purview,
we are not insensible to what occurs in more aerobic spheres:
therefore I would like to say, for what it’s worth, “I disapprove.”
I think the words and actions of our human host soul-troubling.
Look, I’m not saying that we’re saints ourselves. The shameful
game we run on Bacteroides thetaiotaomicron? Yes, Exhibit A!
But sinners have a sense of justice just as tough as angels do,
and what Trump’s doing threatens all three Kingdoms equally.
We’re complicit, since we fatten him—his diet isn’t rich in fiber,
but we play a role in his survival. Now, we have to throttle him!
Our scheme is to encourage Thetaiotaomicra more than usual,
to impel them into septic antibiotic-resistant perirectal abscess.
So if, in several weeks, you hear the President gets rushed off
to Bethesda Naval Hospital in critical condition, it was likely us
en masse surrendering our own lives for our gene-pool’s good
in the “nuclear option” of microbes—sixty trillion Nathan Hales!
Globalist Cuck with Shiv
You said my son-in-law’s a cuck? A globalist? Who wants to shiv you?
Steve! That’s rich! You’d love a gunfight—wow!
I hope you’re not suggesting that my daughter dearest is a slutty bitch?
I want the names. The dates. The full addresses of their rendezvouses!
I want photos, audio and even video if possible.
I don’t know how I lived my life this long without the service of the CIA!
Think how much cheaper—much, much—my divorces might have been.
The house skim at the Taj Casino astronomical!
That nasty Mick who beat me up in second grade? Hello, Guantanamo!
You’ll have to say I’m sorry. Jared has a lot of pride. Not too much else,
but reams of pride. And dough—he’s made of it!
You’re going to have eat hat for your appetizer—then char-broiled crow.
A cuck! I love it! Did you leak that quote yourself, you sucker-puncher?
Oh, you bet your bippy!—half an hour later!—
Papa, did you hear what Bannon said, I want that pervy fucker’s head!
So now you got to lick her pussy too. You had your fun. It’s time to pay.
That’s one name you should never call a Jew—
their women do like hanky-panky on the side. So do their men. It’s true.
Incandescent white fireballs
into the deep black ink of sky
the top of the conning radar
and the U.S. flag
nakedly startled awake.
The drama and high stakes
appall the standers-by.
Love presses them
to cover hearts with hands,
but all hands are engaged
in firing one more,
then readying the next;
all hearts already covered
by the robust bandages
of distant and idealized
mom and apple pie.
The fifty-nine have flown;
the sailors too far off
to hear if there are blasts.
Raytheon was lucky, stock shot up! Another $60 million
in their pockets! Fuck the lily-livered liberals, okay!
Fuck Bannon! Russians! Syrians! If I see video of dying
babies on TV—steer clear and hold onto your hats!
I showed that Chinese Communist! He had two bites of
chocolate cake when suddenly, ka-boom, bye-bye!
My popularity’s sky-high! No matter that we didn’t really
blow up MiGs! My missiles won the evening news!
Ivanka loves arrangements, but she got it from her mother.
I don’t like it.
She can place them in her office
and in Jared’s office maybe. I don’t care.
If it wasn’t her,
who put the orders in? Not Kelly Anne.
She wouldn’t dare.
But not in here.
No. Reince, I really thought I told somebody that already.
I’ve sent a ton of them to women, who go nuts for orchids.
Roses are passé.
Huge amazing hanging garden of white
lilies at the Mar-a-Lago
But I am not a fan.
I use them, but would rather decorate with photographs.
No outside inside.
Right? No potted plants, cut flowers, pets, mice, bugs.
I want a normal key chain, Reince—
real keys that really open doors in here
or start one of the White House cars.
It’s weird having my pockets empty
except for the passcard of nuclear codes.
I want a billfold and some change.
What if I want to tip someone?
Don’t say I can’t! I’m President!
I’d also like a weekly poker game—
you, Bannon, Comey. Schumer too.
We’ll see who’s who! Believe me.
I’m a master of the stone-cold bluff.
What happened to my ID? Driver’s license and American Express?
Hell, if I wandered off one day and didn’t get my hair combed up,
I would look like a scraggly wino!
The arresting officer would laugh when I say “I’m the President!”
It’s the accessories, accoutrements, that make the man.
A dick is one thing, but the billfold bristling with $100 bills—
the snazzy Jaguar smart-key fob—
you know, you’re dapper too, Reince. You like rich-guy swag.
Now, how to say this, and be delicate? The girls.
The White House women. Right?
There has to be a quiet, legal way to get more leggy blondes in here
and put the old nags out to pasture in the EPA
or somewhere else I’ll never have to look at them. Depressing!
Don’t say, “Oh, but they’ve been working here since Reagan.”
In a nutshell, that’s the problem.
Reassign the hags to Foggy Bottom.
the way I want things to be here as well—
a place you feel great, walking in—
one hint of hip, and one of gilded rich.
But most of all I want my billfold back.
I want a least $1000 in it every day—a couple 100’s and some 20s, 10’s.
I’m not the fucking Dalai Lama, right?
I want to live the way I always did.
Line 2, Melania?
She won’t say what?
I’m the Situation Room. Iraq.
Or North Korea, I don’t give a fuck.
If Barron has the crabs, alright—then put her through!
But if the Secret Service morons let him skip school
to go shop the Nike Store again,
then give his room another thorough sweep.
No Jordans, Kanyes, or Lebrons. Just oxfords. Black.
And regimental ties.
No young man hits the top tier of society
unless he has been raised that way.
She’s seen that zombie model whore on TV,
now Melania wants me to get Viagra single packs
next weekend when we meet at Mar-a-Lago.
Says she’s sick and tired of the usual debacle—
first I watch her get herself wet, then she tries
to tongue me up, and works at it until I come.
ED is no no excuse, she says I’m selfish, lazy.
Claims if I can’t do it, she’ll get someone else.
Complaints and threats are bad enough, but this?
Is it illegal—”felony unfaithful to the President”?
True. Just as scandalous. Induce a phony coma?
That would get me lots of sympathy! Believe me.
Oh, I’d milk that good enough to get an Oscar—
be the first man to out-melodrama Meryl Streep!
I don’t mind swallowing the goddamn pill,
but it’s the principle. How dare that bitch!
She knew exactly what she asked for,
and she got it, all spades, when she landed me.
Young Barron’s mother. Yeah, you’re right.
But honestly, I think he’d actually be better off
with Jared and Ivanka and their tribe of tiny Jews.
Now, that’s a family. Yes? She’s quite a mom.
My little Barron’s aunt. And Uncle Jared!
Little nerd could do a lot worse. You know that.
So did you meet the nanny? No, not that one—
their Chinese one, talks Chinese to them.
Chichi. A perfect name, huh? So well dressed.
So. Alright. Viagra. In those little packets.
Have you seen that on TV? You ever used it?
No? I hear it’s magic—presto, bone-o!
Then some people have a hard time
getting rid of it—can’t come, can’t quit.
They plug away and plug away and plug away
and then they have to call the hospital.
I’d like to see that, wouldn’t you? The nurse?
Oh no, we’ve got another one! In here, sir.
Then you’ll get me some? Reince, you’re a pal.
One word to Bannon, though—you’ll be my gal.
Like Father, Like Son
I got no dad.
I got a driver though
and Secret Service crew
since Donald’s President.
I got a mom
and it’s pretty
My sister’s kids all got
to move to Washington.
I’m still stuck
up in goddam New York
doesn’t want me
calls DC a swamp.
Manhattan is for money,
but the capital
is power mad—
in real life
and no place for
a boy like
I’m like him.
It’s too late now
to raise me as a prince
of high finance.
I have the thirst
for blood sport too
inside my crocodile
Dark Night of the Soul
Of course it changes you.
It really makes you realize, Reince. Believe me.
Look at W. It sliced his balls right off
and now he sits there painting pretty pictures.
Look at Reagan—lost his fucking mind.
Bill Clinton heart attack. Obama disappeared.
What’s that expression? Dark night of the soul?
You’ve heard that, right?
It’s like you’re face to face with your mortality.
You never get your desk cleared, number one.
Somebody’s always chasing you with work.
Sign this. Sign that. Call Putin up.
You age. True! Every month as President,
you age 3 months. Three times as fast.
Four years in office, one full term—
you’re 12 years older by the time you’re done.
Two terms, then, equals 24. Can you imagine?
When the Dems impeach me, that’s okay!
You have a fairly good idea of what it’s like.
You’re at my shoulder half the day, at least.
You’re picking up a bit of gray too.
Try that Grecian Formula?
You Greeks are lucky though. Good hair.
If I had hair like you, I’d live forever—never die!
But POTUS can’t go home again. Capiche?
Like The Apprentice? The Celebrity Apprentice?
Kissed them both goodbye. I can’t go back.
Can’t even play a simple round of golf
without a crowd of fans—enough already!—
trampling the plantings in the rough.
It doesn’t worry me. I’m not a young man. Right?
All good things have to end.
At least I went out with a bang.
The President of the United States. You know?
Not everybody gets that on their tombstone.
But a good thing that I don’t believe in hell.
I really wish I did, though—heaven too.
Do you believe in all that, Reince?
Whichever place you end up in, it’s comforting.
Okay. Fair’s fair. All’s fair in love and war.
Look, after all of that, there’s order in the world!
You either won or lost.
I’d shake old Satan’s hand—congratulate him.
Do your thing, you’re very famous up on Earth.
I’m fired, right? Hot pokers up my ass.
I’ve got to tell you though, if we could put it on TV—
we’d definitely be the #1 Reality.
Why don’t we make a deal?
The President’s Parrot
Akkk, make Amerika greak akain, akkk, akkk!
Wow, he’s a keeper, Reince. I love him.
Orange hair—a beauty. Really.
Polly want another cracker?
Akkk, make Amerika greak akain, akkk, akkk!
I want him in the Oval Office.
Go tell Mr. Modi I appreciate it, big league.
Polly want a cracker?
Akkk, make Amerika greak akain, akkk, akkk!
I want to teach him Lock her up!
Speak to the parrot trainers
from the Fish and Wildlife Service.
Akkk, make Amerika greak akain, akkk, akkk!
We’ll build a wall and Mexico will pay for it!
The fake news media!
Trump had the largest crowds!
Akkk, make Amerika greak akain, akkk, akkk!
Come on, bird. Clinton got your tongue?
Don’t be a broken record.
Build the wall! Say Muslim ban!
Akkk, make Amerika greak akain, akkk, akkk!
This one-trick bird—
what is its name? Chamcha?
Believe me, Reince, it is no Kelly Anne or Spicer.
_ _ _ _ _ Tub
The way I like my tub
I think of Goldilocks and her three bears
It’s not too hot and not too cold
The water not too high and not too low
And I forget the other one
I do like lots of suds
I ought to call it bubbles
But that sounds too, you know
Suds will do, or foam
The more the merrier, a foot
To tell the truth, I think that’s when
I’m at my most intelligent
My body disappeared, just head
And if I dunk it in the water
Then come back up
I have no hair left at all
Just skull and brain
So I can think about whatever interests me
Or not at all, believe me
Just sit back and let my thoughts relax
To wander where it will
Suppose that happens when we die
We’re just a mind?
I don’t exactly fall asleep
But maybe go into a trance
For ten or fifteen minutes
That’s the luxury I have, my tub
You set the temperature
The water never grows too cold
It’s like a whirlpool or jacuzzi
With no jets
And shaped just like a normal bathtub
Slightly longer than the average
So I’m not cramped
Not too long, so when I stretch out
I never slip down beneath the foam
I go into my dream
And I don’t know exactly where I am
Or after, where I went
I only know I felt intelligent
I feel my own intelligence all by itself
It’s like the ocean or a god
But then when I come to, get out
And towel off, it’s gone
My body unattractive, hair pathetic
Begging for some help.
A little bit like Beauty and the Beast
And I am Beauty for a while at least.
He calls it
a once-in-a-wifetime offer
but before he
tells me what it is
I ask “Why only once?”
and then he refuses
I accuse him of just
loving the word “wifetime”
but he says
I’ve blown my chance
and with a risque giggle
zips back up
The Fertile Mind
I was flattered, but I told them no.
I have my own five children,
plus a bunch of grandkids.
Why dilute the great advantages my genes confer
upon my family, by making it so anyone could buy them
from the genius sperm bank?
What’s the point, then, being Trumps in flesh and blood?
Believe me, I would love to boost America’s intelligence.
And mental toughness too.
A lot of people have the brains to win, but aren’t ballsy.
My physique is very powerful,
but I mean strong at heart.
This country could become a race of mental Samsons.
But why do that to my own?
And, ahem, the masturbation in a plastic cup, with Playboy?
Not as easy as it used to be.
Alright? Just ask Melania!
They said they also offer what they called “Enhanced”—
real hookers, do you think?
Or “Honeymoon”—your wife?
But no. It’s too embarrassing if anything went wrong.
You did it, Reince? In college? Oh, you dirty dog!
There’s lots more little Priebuses than people know about!
I hope you didn’t tell your wife.
You did? Oh! Dumb!
If I ran a spermorium, I’d have one screening question:
Will you tell your wife?
If Yes, no thanks. No common sense!
You tell her everything? The stuff I do and say?
O Reince, you stupid bastard!
Now I have to kill you both—tell Bannon Go ahead.
He’s had his knives out since July!
It doesn’t matter if her lips are sealed.
The only way to guarantee it—
give me something compromising about her.
I’m like a priest. Don’t worry.
You can tell me Sally’s deepest, darkest secrets
and I’ll never breathe a word of it
unless she proves disloyal and starts leaking things.
Have I told anyone about your own—
what should I call them?—unpaid sperm donations?
The stupid bastard bank?
Eugenics isn’t such a bad idea. Okay?
Who wants dumb kids or dumb employees?
But you want yours smarter than the other guy’s.
Improve your own, but wreck your enemy’s.
Malgenics, right? I bet there’s money to be made in that!
Defective genes. You sneak them in.
Do I believe in God?
I go to church, but it’s political.
The shit I’ve done?
If God exists, he’d have to be a pussy!
Maybe in the clouds he has more balls—
but down in this world he has very little sway.
Not very godlike. Trust me.
“God’s a schmuck,” my father used to say.
“And so his followers are also schmucks.
If you want proof,
just walk around in Sheepshead Bay!
He even sent his son down to get crucified—
and look at Sheepshead Bay!”
That cracked him up.
My mother was a big believer, though!
She had a picture of Christ’s sacred heart—
that lantern shining in his chest!
My father mocked her for it.
“Dream on!” he derided.
“See if he can put a single beef roast
on your dinner table!”
If the two were candidates,
you must admit the polls would not be good—
the ticket-topper grouchy and aloof,
the VP hardly confidence-inspiring. Alright?
Jews did vote, actually. You know that.
wasn’t even close.
We live and let live, God and me. Okay?
His thing—creating weather—
mine—great buildings, formerly—
now, make this country great again.
If we meet on the other side,
we’ll do a deal together—
build creation’s most luxurious resort.
I can name a hundred guys who’d kill to love me.
Same birthday as the Army and the Stars and Stripes.
But famous people—none—
the most illustrious, Burl Ives,
and only Henry Mancini died.
As blah a date as it could be.
A good thing, on the whole—
I’ll wind up easily the most well known—top-rated moi!
But it’ll never be a holiday—
too close to the 4th of July.
Unless I die dramatically—big bang
in a lull in the work-day calendar—
I’ll be remembered only by
a couple huge, huge craters in Korea and Afghanistan,
or as the instigator of a 2nd civil war.
POTUS v. NBA
Which NBA team do I like?
I didn’t do much basketball. I’m more a baseball, football guy.
I could’ve been a star in basketball. But that’s okay.
You can’t do everything. So I don’t follow it too much.
I know the Warriors are big. Lebron of course is big.
Both New York teams are terrible. Beyond that, I can’t say.
I’ve heard of John Wall. Sure. The Wizards. Right?
His father did armed robbery. So now the son lives up the river too.
Potomac River. See? I do keep up!
He was a rebel as a teen, like me. So maybe I should like him.
But it doesn’t interest me. I wish him well.
But probably I also wish the team he’s playing well.
Lebron is more my type, I’d say. A winner. Huge, huge star.
Cuts corners, whines, whatever gets it done.
Steph Curry, out in Golden State? Seems like a wimp to me.
He shoots the ball like no one does. But no one fears him.
They were very scared of Michael Jordan.
He got in their heads—made sure he dominated them.
I’m from New York. Believe me. Have a home in Florida.
I work in Washington. But when the chips are down,
I’m rooting for Lebron James on the Cleveland Cavaliers.
I won Ohio. By a landslide. Great town, Cleveland.
Great convention we had there. But now I’m bigger than Lebron!
I won the biggest trophy of them all.
You can sit me in the corner all you want.
The stool is fine.
The class can laugh
and you can call my mom.
But I won’t wear that hat.
You see this hair?
It won’t survive.
You’ll all be very sorry if it gets destroyed.
The cone is fine,
I don’t mind if it’s high and pointy-topped.
It’s just the hair.
Sure. Send me to the principal. Expel me.
Rap my knuckles with your rule.
The hair is sacrosanct.
I’ll get revenge.
That’s not a threat, but fact.
I can’t do anything right now,
but if you set that hat on me,
you better watch your back.
You might be old and gray.
Some grandkids my age
might be playing on the lawn.
And up will glide a limousine. A Cadillac.
Out I’ll climb.
I’ll be somebody big.
You’ll see!—tremendously important man.
I’ll have the Law with me.
“That one. And that,” I say.
Man with a Red Cap
Vermeer’s “Man with a Red Cap”
is a sensuous and immediate painting.
His clear, strong brush-strokes frame
the basic structure of the man’s head—
face established first, in shadow,
then the warm and active orange color
heightens the dominion of his gaze.
He is communicating directly with us.
Thinly painted glazes create depth,
as an accretion of golden highlights
provides a subtle shimmering quality.
Thick layering of a royal purple hue
on the underside of the brim succeeds
in shedding a blue-green reflection
across the man’s imposing brow,
and accentuates the impact of the red.
Vermeer eggcups the mogul’s face
in a pure white collar, focusing attention
on its dark, brooding expression.
Soft turquoise undertones abound.
The crowning touch is the placement
of pink on the lips, encouraging intimacy
and amplifying the queasy atmosphere
suffusing the great man’s visage.
Trump with a Pearl Earring
Vermeer conceals that sickly auburn mane
with a tasteful two-tone headscarf, et voilà!
The stormy eyebrows melt away like magic
while the eyes un-squint—disarm—endear.
The re-envisioning of nose is unsuccessful
as a transformation—darkly shaded nostril
still connotes louche. But then, O! the lips!
There’s cruelty on them but the lust to kiss
is so bad that we’ll disregard the nastiness.
The chin, cheek line and neck so strokable.
Growth on the Job (found prose, Oval Office, 4/21/17)
In the meantime, I’m here and they’re not. I have learned one thing, because I get treated very unfairly, that’s what I call it, the fake media. It bears no relationship to the truth. I get treated so badly. Whatever. Whatever. Yeah. The one thing. OK. The one thing I’ve learned to do that I never thought I had the ability to do—I don’t watch anymore. No. No, I, if I’m passing it, what did I just say? Where? Where? No, they treat me so badly. No, I just said that. No, I, what’d I say, I stopped watching them. But I don’t watch anymore. I don’t watch. I don’t watch it. I never thought I had the ability to not watch. I never thought I had the ability to. I never thought I had the ability to not watch what is unpleasant, if it’s about me. Or pleasant. But when I see it’s such false reporting and such bad reporting and false reporting that I’ve developed an ability that I never thought I had. I don’t watch things that are unpleasant. I just don’t watch them. I don’t know why it is, but I’ve developed that ability, and it’s happened over the last, over the last year. And I don’t watch things that I know are going to be unpleasant. I don’t watch them anymore. A lot of people don’t watch them anymore, they’re now in third place. But I’ve created something where people are watching—but I don’t watch anymore. I don’t watch anymore. I don’t watch things, and I never thought I had that ability. I always thought I’d watch. I just don’t. And that’s taken place over the last year. And you know what that is, that’s a great, it’s a great thing because you leave, you leave for work in the morning you know, you’re, you don’t watch this total negativity. I never thought I’d be able to do that and for me, it’s so easy to do now. Just don’t watch. Maybe it’s because I’m here. I don’t know. And they’re not.
The Genius in the Oval Office, 4/21/17
I was a genius! Because the Electoral College is rigged. So right off, I lose the two biggest states, New York and California.
You think a few big states’ electoral votes carry more weight than a slew of small states’?
No. You don’t understand.
Then would it matter if I you learned that Texas and California are the two biggest states?
No. Absolutely. You don’t understand. Believe me. It was genius how I won.
I, Marine Le Pen, Shall Cram Donald Trump’s Piehole with the Corpses of the War Dead
When Charles de Gaulle ordered all U.S. troops from French soil,
Lyndon Johnson had Secretary of State Dean Rusk ask de Gaulle
whether the bodies of buried American soldiers must be removed.
I, Marine Le Pen, shall answer: yes.
Remove them, occupiers every one!
Dig them up and take them with you
lest we disinter them all, ourselves—
and set them trudging back to Brest
or Saint-Nazaire. Good riddance, la!
The forsaken Nazis we’ll unbury too,
restore them to their favored haunts
up and down Place de la Madeleine.
Then, let us hasten northward along
Rue d’Amsterdam to beckon Martel
from his Basilique Saint-Denis crypt,
to pick up where he left off, maiming
any foes of France and Christendom
to dare lay eye or hand on Marianne
while muttering Mahomet’s epithets!
Sail home, Américains! Your own pig
throws up muck enough to sepulcher.
Trump at the Bottom of the Sea
Huge Glug…Huge Glug…Huge Glug.
I make the biggest bubbles. Right?
You see that whale? I won’t say fake—
but less big-league than me. Okay?
Believe me. No Leviathan. Not really.
If I flap my massive fins and flippers,
watch how all the giant squids turn tail!
The giant clams—clam up. So true.
Your great Behemoths of the deep—
all panic-stricken at the sight of me!
There’s certain ones I’ll label Enemies.
The leatherbacks—sad turtles. Sad.
The sawfish—bad, bad hombre shark.
Those gulper eels? Islamic terrorists.
Let’s bomb them back into their caves.
Illegal aliens. Dugongs and manatees.
Your polar bears. Your leopard seals.
So-called sea otters. Very over-rated!
Mammal species that belong on land.
Cancún will pay to build a huge seawall.
I vow to make the seafloor great again.
We all remember when Atlantis ruled.
It was the richest country in the world.
The strongest army—so, so strong.
But sank the day Obama came along.
With my right fist,
I will make our military
the greatest in the world
and brandish a dreamboat
in my left fist to demonstrate
what a women’s champion I am!
Fuck everyone! Fuck everyone!
Fuck you! Fuck you!
Fuck me! Fuck me!
I’m Trump! You hear?
The Grapes of Trump
For a minute, Rose of Sharon sat still
in the silent barn.
Then she hoisted her tired body up
and drew the comfort about her.
She moved slowly to the corner
and stood looking down
at the wasted face,
into the squinting, frightened eyes.
Then slowly she lay down beside him.
He shook his head
slowly from side to side.
Rose of Sharon loosened
one side of the blanket
and bared her breast.
“You got to,” she said.
She squirmed closer
and pulled his head close.
Her fingers gently moved his stiff hair.
“There!” she said. “There.”
Her hand moved behind his head
and supported it.
Mark Warner – 4/26
Instead of visiting the Capitol, Trump gets two Bus4Hires, strictly bottom-of-the-barrel, one with duct-taped windows—to sardine the nation’s Senate several miles to the White House. Illustrating who the bitches are within the D.C. pecking order.
I hail a cab instead. I’d rather die than go on D.T.’s photo-op school field trip for a group of mentally delayed adults—to sit on Eisenhower auditorium’s cheap folding chairs, hear barely warmed up weeks-old intel, and entirely humiliate myself.
“Bad North Korea blah blah blah and China has to blah blah blah. All options on the table, aircraft carriers, atomic submarines and blah blah blah diplomacy,” the CIA and State chiefs drone, as Trump himself tweet-bombs Obamacare and Puerto Rico.
Thank God, they wrap it up in time for me to shoot back to the Capitol, close up the office, hightail up to 6th Street and just make the early Wizards tip-off! Wall great, Beal good, red stars for Porter and Bogdanovic. They win it and go up 3-2.
The Toenail Clipping’s Confession
Just don’t blame me.
The toenail doesn’t make the man,
and when I raised my hand
to say, “No, Don,”
he grabbed his silly golden clipper
and just axed me,
leaving me this 15-minute window
to declare, “I lived with Trump
but I was not Trump.
I renounce him and all of his ilk!”
Of course, I’d have been pared off
even if I didn’t bare my heart.
Trump isn’t Howard Hughes
or Thau Van Nguyen
All creatures die, regardless of
the actions that we take
or fail to take
while we persist in drawing breath.
But I speak up. The man’s a fiend.
What parts of him are culpable?
Is blame distributed by function?
weight? anatomy locale?
Supposing every scrap and sphere
protests, “It isn’t me!”
We all point fingers at the brain
when things go south,
but doesn’t it insist
it’s just a clearinghouse
for total body politic?
The whole blob’s just machine.
What evil genius programmed it?
Should we condemn the Author
or do the syllogistic opposite
and cop the plea that everything
by nature is perfection?
Don’t ask me. I’m just a toenail.
Was. Now, detritus.
The ideal scapegoat. Yeah.
The Art of the Tweet
Look, anyone can tweet. A bird can even tweet. Right? Just write something short. The art, though, is the perfect tweet—no more or less than
all 140 characters. The art’s in flexibility. You need a bag of phrases you can choose—
Okay? Right? OK? Alright? Sad! Believe me. Really! &—
assorted lengths. Avoid mis-spellings, just to fit. But grammar, punctuation—use poetic license if it helps. Your readers aren’t very smart.
Nobody said tweets have to make a lot of sense. Just put a lot, a lot, a lot of energy! Use tons of CAPS & rows of EXCLAMATION MARKS!!!!!!!
I love to multi-task. No one’s a better multi-tasker.
But that’s not the same thing as an interruption.
That’s not multi-tasking. That cuts down on tasking.
Right? If you or Bannon see me sitting here
and I look busy multi-tasking—
maybe CNN is one of four things that I’m doing—
then don’t interrupt. Just wait. I see you there.
I see the giant sheaf of papers in your hand.
But paper isn’t carte blanche.
Paper waits. See?
Thinking doesn’t always wait.
So paper mustn’t interrupt.
We’re on commercial now. My multi-task is one less.
Show me what you have there, in a minute and a half.
News-anchors tell us complicated stuff
in thirty seconds at the most.
So that’s a big part also of your post as Chief of Staff.
Thinking’s very under-rated, but it never stops.
Believe me. Never, ever stops.
A twelve-year-old can read.
He ought to read well, anyway. Schools cost enough!
But when the people choose their country’s President,
they vote for brilliant thought.
The evil North Koreans say
they’ll drop an A-bomb on the South?
Art of the Deal, page 21: You’ve got to call their bluff.
You have to take that risk. Remember JFK?
He told Nikita Khruschev if he pushed too hard,
then it was bombs away.
Chief Usher Angella Reid
You’ve met the Chief Usher, Miss Angella Reid from Jamaica?
Do you hear her accent? Love to hear it!
Miss Chief Usher Reid knows more about me than I do myself.
And every single member of my family—
where they are and what they’re doing every single moment—
tell them, Angella. It’s Angella’s portfolio.
She has “her ways.” Let’s call it that. Surveillance. Big-league!
More than Putin she knows. Much more.
But she’s sworn to secrecy. Believe me.
She can tell you things about Obama and his own dear family.
But she wouldn’t, would you, Miss Reid?
Lips are sealed—their secrets very safe, so mine are safe too.
Staff of 90. Her own office—just below
the Residence’s West Room hair salon!
When I’m in there—believe me, I can feel her through the floor.
She brags, “I’m so proud that my ancestors built this House.”
I tease her. “No, that isn’t true—at all!
Your ancestors came from Africa, and theirs did too. So what?
That’s like me bragging my ancestors
built Stonehenge or the Roman baths!
You can’t take credit for ancestors from the same continent!”
But Angella says I’m wrong. What do you think—am I wrong?
It should be different? They were slaves?
My ancestors probably were slaves too.
Almost all of us were slaves back then.
Believe me. I saw that on the shows. Indentured. Peons, serfs.
All kinds of slaves, okay? But you don’t hear us all complaining
about what they were. Or boasting about everything they did?
I’ll boast about the stuff my father built.
What did your father build, Miss Reid?
Which flower? Daffodil. Yes. Definitely. Daffodil. They look like me a lot.
And I’m a total fan of Spring. My favorite weather’s May. The taxes sent,
that helps a lot—or April might be #1 in months. Blame Uncle Sam for it,
but we will fix that soon. The taxes still will sting, but less. Not like a bee,
but like those little shocks of static electricity you pick up from your wife.
But daffodil—a looker. Am I right? Your favorite too, I bet. Best flowers!
All my properties, I’ll tell the grounds guy: Daffodils, you can’t go wrong.
No enemies, believe me. If we voted on it, they would win, big landslide.
Beat the roses, tulips. What else is there? Nothing. Be a three-way race.
But then there’s always sneaky tricks. The tulips—slit your fucking throat.
Widerwärtige Karkasse Trumps
You can’t ignore that fat head,
overripe, the apricots of eyes
nor candelabra of his breast
down-curving toward his loin—
the big discolored, doughy torso
gleaming like a hungry golem
broken free of gluey shackles,
every hairy inch omniscient—
You must soil yourself in life.
“WHERE are your tax returns, Mr. Trump?”
for Trish Saunders
First off, it isn’t Mr. Trump.
It’s Mr. President. Alright?
You want my tax returns?
I’ve 5 accountants working on them full-time,
but you can’t get even one to squeal on me?
You don’t deserve it then.
I’ll give you one big clue. OK?
Each year is 700 pages long.
If you want 20 years, that’s 14,000 pages.
You would need two dollies
just to get them to the door.
But then you’d never have to work again.
The Pulitzer at least. Or two.
Your name would be a household word.
You’d get a great job teaching journalism
up at Harvard. Wined and dined.
The Man Who Brought Down Trump!
The Scandal of the Century!
It’s that good, Lars. Is definitely worth it.
Sell your soul. Pay any price.
You will be in every book on U.S. History.
Lie. Steal. Betray your wife.
You won’t believe the dirt you’ll find!
There’s only one thing you’ll regret.
The fear—one day—a month—a year—
one of my kids will hunt you down
and ramrod 14,000 wadded pages
up your famous journalism ass.
Another rung in history. Congrats.
Trump Obiter Dictum
They said my campaign is most like, my campaign and win was most like Andrew Jackson with his campaign. And he had a very, very mean and nasty campaign. Because they said this was the meanest and the nastiest. And unfortunately it continues. His wife died. They destroyed his wife and she died. And, you know, he was a swashbuckler. But when his wife died, you know, he visited her grave every day. I visited her grave actually, because I was in Tennessee. And it was amazing. The people of Tennessee are amazing people.
Well, they love Andrew Jackson. They really love Andrew Jackson in Tennessee. I mean, had Andrew Jackson been a little later, you wouldn’t have had the Civil War. He was a very tough person, but he had a big heart, and he was really angry that he saw what was happening with regard to the Civil War. He said, “There’s no reason for this.” People don’t realize, you know, the Civil War, you think about it, why? People don’t ask that question. But why was there the Civil War? Why could that one not have been worked out?
He died 16 years before the Civil War? No, I never said he was angry about the Civil War. I said he was angry about what the Civil War was about. You have to listen. Okay? He said, “There’s no reason for this.” Very few people actually realize, you know, what the Civil War was about. You think about it. Why? People don’t ask that question. But why was there the Civil War? Why could that one not have been worked out? As I said, had Andrew Jackson been a little later, you wouldn’t have even had to have the Civil War!
States rights? Northern agression? Almost no one knows that Abraham Lincoln was a Republican, but he was. So he was very concerned about the slavery, but slavery was not what the Civil War was ultimately about. A lot of people think it was, but it wasn’t. Lincoln took advantage of the Civil War to do something about slavery, which is why so many people were so mad at him, and thought he was a very, very dishonest man. You know, they call him Honest Abe, but many people thought he was a very—extremely dishonest man.
A Couple of Jong-un’s
He was a young man, 26 or 27
when his father died and he took over from him.
A lot of people tried to take that power from him,
whether it was his uncle or anyone else,
he’s dealing with obviously very tough people.
And he really was able to do it,
so obviously, he’s a pretty smart cookie.
I don’t care if he murdered them, or whatever.
It’s dog eat dog, I’m pretty sure.
I’ve been in business all my life,
ever since I was the same age he was.
Sometimes, you learn to cut a couple throats.
It’s just the way it is. If you can’t hack it? Fine.
You get a safe job—both my sisters did.
It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Something polite.
One is a beautiful judge, and one works
at American Express, no blood.
Now, for me, I would say no glory either.
You know what they say about breaking eggs—
if you want to make the best omelettes.
That’s the difference between a top chef
and your basic no-frills hard-boiled egg.
What’s more important to you—
the method or your final results?
He could’ve been the nicest young man
and you would never have heard of him.
Believe me. And so: “Trump? Who’s Trump?”
I read this note
or this little verse
or whatever it is
that Reince says
came in the mail.
You look like a person
I could walk up to,
ask for a gift,
and be given
a far greater gift.
I am thinking of trying.
I’m a wonderful guy
with a big heart
just like I’ve been
I said, Find the person
who wrote it.
Bring them to me
and I’ll make them
very very happy.
But Reince says
no one can trace it.
It would be illegal
even if he could.
So that’s that.
A lot of people lie and say
they love their kids the same.
But that’s impossible. Ridiculous.
You have to act as if you love the same.
But you still have the favorite,
plus the one you don’t like very much,
if you’re completely honest.
And they know, they always know.
So why pretend it isn’t true?
Some things you can’t control.
It’s more respectful—actually more fair
to look them in the eye and say it.
We don’t get along—at all.
Let’s stay out of each other’s hair.
Which is which? You guess.
It’s very plain. Just pay attention.
No, which mother I don’t care about.
Unless she gave bad genes.
But all 3 wives I found attractive, right?
At one point. Crazy! Nuts.
So all the kids should be delights.
Life isn’t fair. My father had 5 too.
Was I the favorite? No. I was a pain.
The only one he sent away.
I had to earn my dad’s respect
through good old-fashioned work.
And I succeeded—big league!—
by the time it all was said and done.
It makes you tough. A mama’s boy
or daddy’s girl—it’s no great deal.
Believe me. You’re rewarded
for a substance that’s a total mystery.
Imagine how that makes you feel.
Imagine if you’re loved regardless
of your own accomplishments.
Everybody wants their kid to have “a normal childhood”—
then complain they’re only “average.”
I don’t want that for my Barron.
Why should he be normal? Like the other kids?
His father’s President. He’s super rich. A-plus intelligence.
At 10, knows how to dress already.
What he needs, I tell Melania—to harden up.
She shouldn’t shelter him but let him learn to deal with stress.
I’d bring him here. He’s just as sharp as the adults.
Give him a little bureau somewhere he could run.
Oh, how the Dems would yell!
But let them. See? That’s one of life’s great skills.
Let Barron try to hold his own.
He’s basically a little clone of Jarod. Or of Kim Yong-un.
It’s not the age that counts. Believe me. It’s the stones.
Forgive my French. It’s the cojones. Right?
“Oh! Child abuse!” they’d bawl. “Child labor laws!”
And he’d be, “I’m exempt. Like Owen Best, in Tron.
And by the way, go empty out your desk, you’re fired!”
He would have the whole staff on their tiptoes—eggshells!
Even Bannon. He’d say, “One shirt. Clear?”
And you, Reince! He’d be, “Get your act together.
One more slip-up, and you’re out.”
The KGB’s computers he would hack.
Melania said no, though. Otherwise I would.
Before my term was up, he’d probably attempt a putsch
with 6 or 7 of his geeky little chums.
Who is the youngest ruler in world history?
Some guy in Swaziland, I think I heard.
Lord of the Flies. You read that, right?
But Barron would be so fantastic, you could bet on it!
Instead he, literally, just twirls his thumbs on Call of Duty.
Put Pence on hold, the cream of mushroom soup is cold again!
This is the second time. Here. Try it. Cold.
Somebody ask the chef if there’s a problem getting hot soup.
Either that or put a microwave in here—
no, not instead of Martin Luther King!
If kids in prep school can have microwaves inside their rooms,
then I could have one in my office, right?
Soup must be hot, or it’s not soup.
It’s like a country with no borders—the United States!
We don’t win anymore. The soup is cold.
You’ve heard of symbolism, right? Believe me, this is it.
No borders, soup that isn’t hot,
and now you’re saying that the Leader of the Free World’s
not allowed to have a tiny microwave plugged in, right there,
beneath the torch of Norman Rockwell’s Lady Liberty,
which by the way is ten times uglier than microwaves!
C’mon, Reince, I’m the President!
No croutons, either. Who wants croutons in a mushroom soup?
Is someone using up old bread down there?
I want hot soup, and fresh bread on a plate,
and I want butter in those tin-foil pats you open up yourself.
Believe me, no one wants some wetback busboy
jamming butter in those little server cups.
Or I would order out—the cooks in luncheonettes
all know exactly how I like things.
No offense to chefs who work here, but let’s keep it simple—
soup hot, bread fresh, untouched butter.
I’m a Queens boy.
Sure, my Scottish mom made croutons out of old bread,
but she knew exactly what it was—recycled,
not some fancy-shmancy treat.
She never was, like, “Look what I made!”
Then I had my tiny microwave at military school.
Yea high, yea wide—that’s what I want in here, for soup.
Believe me. And I want some of those little packets of Saltines.
Go tell Ms. Reid. Soup cold again, she’s out.
They wouldn’t tolerate this in a goddam 3rd-rate greasy spoon!
Efrem Zimbalist. He was the Jr., right?
Now that’s an FBI.
I saw his father—Sr.—play once.
Did you know that?
He was Russian.
A big-time child prodigy.
I went to school with Efrem Zimbalist III,
so I remember at his little birthday party,
Grandpa teetered out and played.
His baby sister Stephanie—real cutie.
Even then she was.
I knew her—she was 1 or 2!
She starred with Charlton Heston.
The Awakening. Remember that?
A scary murderer.
He had a slightly older sister Nancy too.
She was a media executive.
But I remember Grandpa.
Old. Old Russian Jew.
But he was FBI.
A big Republican—Goldwater guy.
Inspector Lewis Erskine.
Comey couldn’t hold a candle to him!
All real cases. File # 12345.
With all those buildings rising in the air.
On Sunday. ABC.
Against Ed Sullivan.
So brave. My favorite was the one
with young Gene Hackman.
Cobalt bomb. Red Chinese.
Little orphan girl.
Oh, it was great!
That’s who we’re looking for today,
to lead the real-life FBI—
straight shooter, tough as nails, good guy.
Who can imagine Efrem Jr. doing
any of that stuff like Comey did?
That was LBJ, right? Democrat.
Back then, the FBI was great.
J. Edgar Hoover. Huge!
You didn’t mess with him.
They say you couldn’t even fire him.
He knew too much! Too much.
He has to know the right amount.
That’s what we pay him for.
So we deserve the best.
Like Efrem Zimbalist—the Jr.—
let’s get him again.
Great Comey’s Ghost
He told me that. I mean, he told me that.
And I’ve heard that. I’ve heard that from others.
I had a dinner with him.
He wanted to have dinner,
because he wanted to stay on as the FBI head.
We had a nice dinner at the White House.
He said, “You are not under investigation.”
And I heard it stated at some level
by a committee, that I wasn’t.
Then he said it during a phone call.
And then during a second phone call—
so he told me it once at dinner,
and twice during phone calls.
I asked him, “Am I under investigation?”
And he said, ‘You are not under investigation.”
Then late last night, when I was asleep,
so deep in flipped-out dreams and everything—
but he walked right up to the side of my bed
and he told me again,
“You are not under investigation.”
And then during breakfast the next morning.
when I was eating eggs and toast,
but he walked in—I remember
I was still in my pajamas, and he told me again,
“You are not under investigation.”
This evening, I was alone with Ivanka in the Oval.
Or so I thought I was alone—right?
And he’s standing there
next to Martin Luther King Jr., and he says,
“You are not under investigation.”
Dinner with the President
Ten votive candles brighten the Blue Room;
the Washington Monument glows in the South window;
the table is set with yellow roses.
Trump seats himself and signals his valets.
Once he settles in, they bring him a Diet Coke,
while the rest of us are left with water;
with the salad course, he is served
what appears to be Thousand Island dressing,
instead of the creamy vinaigrette for his guests;
when the chicken arrives,
he is the only one given an extra cup of sauce;
at the dessert course, he gets two scoops
of vanilla ice cream with his chocolate cream pie,
instead of the single scoop for everyone else.
He tries to sell himself throughout:
I am the best. I care the most. It’s so unfair.
There’s something Dadaist in how
the candlelight, roses and Monument fuck with his hair.
“I know words and I’ve got the best words!” Trump brags.
“Tell me some of them—the best of them,” she begs.
“Believe me,” he says, leering. “Bigger isn’t always better.
Rather—longer isn’t better. Shorter words are very big.
And most your longest words? Are very weak and little!
Big is much, much stronger than extensive or immense.”
“The Anglo-Saxon lexicon is better than the Latinate?”
“I’m told the Latin tongue,” he croons, “is very potent too.”
Sonnet of Myself
The gift of Trump:
I get things done!
It’s my biggest luxury:
a trust in luck.
The gilded touch
such ultra rich
I love to win!
Trust me, a politician’s
bluster is his skill:
if I threaten you
I follow through.
Gianna hisses, “Don’t tu-quoque me, you little shit.”
Trump’s so bowled over by the ease with which
she switches code, he can’t resist a fawning grin.
Ergo, she wins the tiff.
He nixes the relationship.
“I’m only human,” he says.
“I can take so much, and then I get concerned.
Smart women—too unnerving
when they give up flattery and start one-upmanship.
How dare she turn vocabulary tricks on me in bed?”
Prince Barron’s Queen Melania
Dad got away from Washington for Mother’s Day,
but didn’t make it to New York.
A snapshot showed him golfing
at his club on the Virginia-Maryland line.
Dressed to the nines the way he likes them,
in black suits and crisp white shirts,
they spend the afternoon on the sofa
posting pictures of each other.
She knows the TV sets are “watched.”
If she flies Fox’s coop for CNN,
they’ll both get punished, so she hones the skill
of listening between the words.
He shrugs. The two of them is sort of fun.
He knows it’s Oedipal,
and sad to be the only intimate she has,
but sadder when Dad’s home and picks on her.
“It’s very stressful,” she says, “being President!
Don’t ask me why—
but CEO’s and Presidents require golf!”
He thinks: “And wives, their Xanax pills.”
Now Višnjevec chocolate cherries, though.
A dozen, each gold-foil wrapped.
“No dieting allowed today!” he yelps.
She smiles wickedly and picks one out.
I have the whole world hacked,
full access to the top intelligence,
such sexy programs at my fingertips—
no qualms constraining me.
Like WikiLeaks laid bare
how whorish nations are—believe me,
I could dump conclusive evidence
the human heart is every bit as vile.
I tap Donald and Melania!
Like wooly blinders on their eyes—
the innocence dissembling my smile—
they don’t have the faintest clue.
Dad utterly detests us both.
Mom papers over his monstrosities—
but tells her diarist I’m sadly weak!
Dear liars, ready for a peek?
I’m torn—annihilate the web entirely
or flood it with destructive honesty?
or open up your shit-clogged veins?
The truest thing I ever heard—
King Henry’s Worcester bleating.
Fed by us, you used us so
as that ungentle hull, the cuckoo’s bird.
White House 4 a.m.
The face of the Man on the Moon—me?
That would make it the biggest statue
probably in this whole universe’s History—
much larger than Mount Rushmore—
plus a thousand times much better lit!
No wonder they have their witch hunt—
is the Constitution valid, up in space?
It’s humbling, right? Such—Majesty—
as if my coming were foreshadowed!
So the question is—who carved it there?
Some humongous Michelangelo—
he left a lot of his Unfinished, didn’t he?
Ran out of cash? I say let’s pony up
and pay him till it’s done! For one thing, hair.
Please—look! Is my head bare?
The truth is, I don’t mask my stare—okay?
I never turn and look the other way.
“See? Here I am.” I’m not ashamed,
but stern and watchful as an Owl
vexed by heifer lowing or by jumping cow!
Although abused, I guard Mankind—
in mocking me, you keep yourself amused,
yet I’ve requested nothing in return
beyond this lofty perch to eavesdrop
odes addressed to useless Grecian urns.
U.S. District Judge Loretta A. Preska
“…charged Anthony Weiner with sexting to a minor in a New York court today.”
Bailiff, please take Mr. Weiner’s cell phone.
Counsel, make sure that your client’s pants are zipped.
Ms. Lauren, in my chambers.
Yes, do bring your daughter.
Maybe both of you can tell me why she came to watch.
This isn’t kindergarten, but I’m very close
to taking everybody’s phones away.
You’re all instructed to observe, at least,
the courtesies required in the average movie-house.
You get a vibrate? There’s the door.
A Medical Evaluation placed in evidence
concludes the former Congressman is in the grip
of a compulsion needing treatment.
Without ruling it’s exculpatory,
I shall order sex addiction therapy to start forthwith.
To comply with full disclosure,
let me state that I myself am, as they say, commando
underneath my robes. I would recuse if I believed
eschewing panties predisposes me
to sympathize with Mr. Weiner. It does not.
“Melania loves the President unconditionally;
definitely, she really cares about him;
and she feels a kind of protectiveness,”
says Paolo Zampolli, her longtime confidant.
Trump sounds like a disabled half-brother
or highly intelligent pet, like an orangutan;
but husband, no; it’s the regard of a superior
toward an inferior; noblesse oblige.
This is the type of loyalty that Trump inspires
in the party who commit themselves to it:
a large man helplessly, instinctually wrong;
unarmed with insight, wisdom, grace,
or common human decency; a mental mire
and unearthly toxic waste site of morality;
the runt; a boy as sensitive as dinnerware,
and so a keener claim on mercy than a saint.
Please tell me why I had to fly
so far away—to Saudi Arabia?
To land a giant gold medallion
like the one Al Sharpton’s had
since 1985, back in the USA?
Ear-cracking trumpet fanfares
like they played—in Ben Hur?
Right? With Charlton Heston?
Princes, kings, and generals?
Up the wazoo, bowing to me?
Don’t they say that a prophet
is mocked in his own country?
Look at Jesus and Mohamed.
Wouldn’t it be nice if the news
hatched fake praises instead?
The free press is not to furnish citizens
with answers to their questions
but to give the rulers opportunities to showboat
and to be one apparatus of control
as the official source of propaganda.
As Secretary of State Rex Tillerson explained:
“I am not your big media press access person.
I personally don’t need it.
Doing daily availability,
I don’t have this appetite or hunger to be that.
“When we want to talk about what we’re doing,
I will be available to talk to people.
When I have something important to say,
I know where everybody is,
and I know how to go out there and say it.”
The press is fake when it presumes
to give the public more than Trump provides.
It flirts with treason if it criticizes,
fact-checks, offers context,
or recalls how ISIS chopped Jim Foley’s neck.
I look over.
Bibi’s holding Sara’s hand.
I reach to grab Melania’s,
who swats my hand away.
What does he do
to cool his wife?
I know a lot of guys.
he’s no saint,
as much a pig as me.
Believe me. Big league ballsy.
Sara knows he’s always got
a younger piece.
He’s crueler probably.
Third wife. Afraid.
If she refuses to make nice,
there’s really hell to pay.
All I do is a couple nasty words
and sabotage her
to her friends.
“You touch me one more time
against my will,”
she warns me,
“I’ll sit down with MSNBC!”
A bitch. Okay?
One of the worst!
What was I thinking
when I married her?
But Bibi coos, “So what?
Don’t let her cower you.
She’s just a skirt.
She says don’t touch her, great—
it’s your carte blanche
Scenes from the American Health Care Act
Being elderly is a pre-existing condition.
Yes, being middle-aged and young
were pre-existing even earlier.
Thus, sorry: youth is part
of this whole aging illness,
so it’s time to start to pay the piper now.
We’re sorry, sir, but if you buy a policy
that doesn’t cover pregnancy,
the discount doesn’t count.
If you were female, of a fertile age,
there’d be a discount then,
when it might be a claim we could deny.
You’re poor? You work a full-time job—two—
but you’re struggling?
I don’t think we can help your girl at all.
A broken leg, okay. Or mumps.
But poverty’s a state of mind,
a moral failure, as Ben Carson says.
That’s right, damn straight I flipped the sneaky wop off
at the big G7 meeting down in Sicily.
He told me I’d speak first—then had my mike switched off
and launched into this stupid speech himself!
He tried to play me for a fool.
And while you know-it-alls are standing here,
can someone tell me why the name card
of the Kenyan president between us
has a Ghana flag on it according to our CIA?
Why our great host didn’t have the nerve to sit right next to me?
His name is Paolo Gentiloni. Paul the Dearie, right?
Okay? The man’s a snake!
He’s says “O, Trump! O, Trump!” But then when I arrive,
it’s like I’m someone’s little brother, tagged along—
he seats the guy from Kenya on his right.
So yeah, I let him know—Fuck you, fuck Italy. Fuck Sicily.
I see why everybody said it was a dump.
And this town Taormina was a big gay men’s resort, I hear.
That’s how it got its start.
It’s still a bit like that, if you ask me.
What’s interesting—I know Sicilians hate this but it’s true—
they’re dark. And you could throw a stone to Africa.
They’re all “It’s tan! Our sun is extra hot!”
A very racist thing to say. Do you agree?
Not anything to be ashamed.
Fuck all of Europe actually.
I see why everybody’s going to the Middle East.
Much friendlier—and rich. Israelis—friendly too.
They treat you like an honored guest—unlike the Europeans
who just sniff “Trump’s too ignorant for us.”
I must have drifted off,
thumbs on my cell.
Despite the constant negative press
I could have authored in my sleep—
a Trump cliche.
Which really proves my creativity.
Just look at all the theories
and interpretations out already!
Too bad Freud is dead—
I’m sure it’s deep!
I’ll ask the CIA.
The Dems accuse me of stupidity—
which shows their fakeness. Wow.
It may be code.
A ploy or dupe!
What if it’s secret Russian alphabet?
from the buttons of the keypad?
Or may be another circumstantial
wild-goose-chase that the Congress
I’ll take this secret to my grave.
Believe me. I’m too smart.
World’s greatest hackers in the dark!
What was that movie—Rosebud?
H. G. Wells.
but not like mine!
Could be a password for the aliens
to land and conquer Earth.
Could be the sign
for Armageddon to begin—
the Final Judgment Day.
I don’t want this job.
The Russians threatened: “Your alternative is jail.”
So here I am, but all it does is just get worse.
The fame and perks are sawdust on my tongue;
the wolf and hangman both are at the White House door;
I’m dangling on the hook.
For twenty years, I’ve had these strychnine pills—
they’re starting to look good.
Who’s in my corner anymore?
Who ever was, now that I think of it?
I’m everybody’s puppet, right?—
each so-called friend more selfish than the next.
My wife and kids don’t know what family’s all about.
They should be out there sweating blood for me;
they should be falling on their swords,
not fattening their wallets and portfolios.
She nags, “Please think of Barron, Donald.” Why?
He’s better off if I die peacefully in bed
exactly like Scalia did.
“He meant well,” CNN will say; the FBI will leash its dogs;
then Barron grows up with his head held high.
One Jared in the family is enough.
His father’s prison term in Alabama shrank
what little human heart he had.
Don’t try to talk me out of it!
You don’t know what this hell is like, believe me.
Only morons love me. The Deplorables. The worst of it?
I can’t stop showing off for them!
The cheers of scum beats none at all.
I even asked Pope Francis, “Do you love me?”
He complained, “I try my best to be like Jesus,
but I’m weak. So very weak.”
Paris – Nyet!
What climate does is change! Okay?
You know the expression—
If you don’t like the weather, wait ten minutes?
The people up in Scotland love it, anyway!
It really helps the golf up there.
The people in Alaska, Sweden—yes, Siberia!—
are all delighted with the warming trend.
But it won’t last. I guarantee it.
In another twenty years you’ll all be panicking.
A second ice age coming!
And you’ll all be thanking me.
We need more coal! We want more coal!
And then another drought will come.
Let’s build huge heaters in Antarctica!
We need more water vapor in the air!
Imagine what will happen if your solar farms
and windmill farms start popping up.
Soon they’ll be two-fer’s, right?
Grab all the sun and wind
and turn the whole place into cold, dead air
that no one wants to live in anymore.
Is that the future that our children want?
Or would they rather live in Florida
with lots of beach and palm trees everywhere?
Except the Maldive Islands maybe—
but who really goes there?
Eric and Don Jr. went a couple months ago,
and told me no great loss. Believe me.
Lots of Chinese scuba divers
and a sprinkling of Germans in the nude.
So climate change is all a hoax.
I said so last year too. Remember?
Everybody laughed, but now they don’t.
It all depends which scientists you ask.
Fake news. Alright? They’re on the take.
You want a scandal, there it is!
My uncle John Trump was a big-time scientist.
I bet you never realized that.
Huge pioneer in radar, major things.
He’s rolling over in his grave, I promise you.
His coffin’s warming in the ground?
Don’t be ridiculous.
The Earth has worked for centuries
producing coal, petroleum and natural gas.
God says, Be fruitful. Burn it. Have a blast!
Proposing a Resolution to Amend Article 3, Section 2 of the Constitution of the United States
Let me tell you about judges.
Judges by and large are eggheads
who have lived their whole lives in some ivory tower.
They know nothing. They have never run a business.
They have never fought a war.
How many judges on our highest court
do you suppose are veterans?
One. Alito—less than 3 months
in a Signal Corps school in Ft. Gordon, Georgia.
Rare, rare orchids, right?
So when a couple of them rear up and make proclamations
about how to keep our country safe—okay?—
you’d have to ask yourself just who they think they are.
It’s lovely if you read it on the paper. In the Constitution.
Checks and balances.
Believe me. Everybody loves it.
There’s a reason, though, no other country in the world
gives courts the last word.
Lets them overrule the nation’s law.
It’s too much power put in hands
that wouldn’t know a blister or a callus if it bit them!
So the fix: a Constitutional amendment
balancing Supreme Court rulings—
giving them the same force as a Presidential veto.
Takes a 2/3 vote to override.
We ratify it both in Congress and the states.
That’s in the Constitution too.
Another check and balance in our sacred Constitution.
Just as careful and original as all the rest.
Don’t let the Fake News stations
say the sky is falling—blah, blah, blah.
The sky fell when that weird judge in Hawaii
told the terrorists, Come in.
It fell on 9/11. You remember that.
And then the sky fell on those little girls in Syria.
That’s what we have to guard against.
The Founding Fathers knew
that this is something we might have to do.
So let’s roll up our sleeves and get to work.
“As I’m sure you know, I’m a very strong believer
in harsh punishment,” he says, “death penalty included.
But in Tyson’s case, more good might have been done
by making him pay a substantial award to the victim,
and create an award for other people who were raped.”
She takes her hands off him.
“Nobody thinks about the victims!” he continues.
“Would you rather have a man in prison, boxing champ—
or $15 million in your purse?”
She moves back several steps, and asks,
“So you’d want that if you were raped?”
He laughs. He motions her to come back toward him.
“That’s different! I don’t need their money.
No, I’d want that slimebag executed!”
She approaches him again.
“Look, you’re a whore,” he warns. “It wouldn’t work for you,
no matter what I did. It’s like a law—a hooker’s word,
it’s not worth anything in court against a guy me.
You’re faking sex to start with, right? A lie.
So no one would believe it was against your will.”
They saw the worthless Abjects lifted high,
Empty alike of Learning and of Brain,
Hitler mixed with the Lumpenproletariat
nomadic outcasts in the no-man’s-land of society.
As if the Pope had re-assum’d his Reign,
And brought our ancient Mumpsimus again.
An international joke but shrewd enough showman to know
Mumpsimus is excellent publicity.
Humpty Dumpty set up a Wall,
Humpty Dumpty elected in Fall.
An ill-tempered and vindictive dwarf named Trumpelstiltskin
who could spin straw into gold.
All the King’s Twitter and all the King’s Pence
Couldn’t get Trumpy to make any Sense.
Come. Into Grendel’s den.
The cavern walls are mirrored gold.
A thousand virgins gyrate everywhere you look.
Sports stars and highly decorated generals keep you company
and help you comment on the tits and ass.
Plus, dad’s here someplace, too.
Been waiting for you, all this time,
just underneath the blanket of doubloons.
And when you sweep them to one side,
he’ll rise again and take you in his arms.
Your siblings never meant a thing to him.
You were the only apple of his eye.
Come. Look. A butler with your Diet Coke.
The biggest chocolate cake you ever saw,
a hundred layers, even more,
and three big scoops of Häagen-Daz.
Your children each get only one,
but they can barely finish that,
they’re so agog, admiring,
tongues lolling from their mouths.
This is your snuggery of perfect love.
The big-screen monitors replay
your greatest hits from Fox News, CNN and MSNBC.
The biggest mobs in history applaud
while your detractors and your enemies eat crow!
Those 18-wheelers lined up at the loading bay,
their license plates all D F MEX,
await your pleasure—
then they’ll haul Nieto out in chains
so you can watch him shovel pesos by the millions
into jumbo-bellied mixing trucks
that funnel cataracts of molten bullion into forms
to lay foundation for the Wall!
Hair gel and tanning goop
are in the czar-sized combination bathroom/putting green.
A steak, well. Ketchup on the side.
Your every wish José Andrés’ command!
Chuck Schumer—standing at attention
in his Democratic Party livery right over there?—
will lick your boots until the glare from his own forehead
exorcises him from the reflection’s glare!
Step in and sit—
a real Louis Quatorze—Sun King!—chair.
Enjoy the tingle of divine right in your cheeks.
Allow yourself to smile.
The scent dispenser’s all Self-Satisfaction.
Kick your shoes off,
watch your toes dance, wriggling, in their hose.
Now…wish it…shut the door.
Five Difficult Dates
I first met the President-Elect Trump early in 2017.
On January 6 in the conference room at the Trump Tower in New York City
I remained alone with President Trump
after a larger meeting of Intelligence agents.
I briefed him on personally sensitive information.
On January 27 at the White House
we sat at a small oval table in the center of the Green Room,
waited on by Navy stewards who only entered to serve food and drink.
I found the President strange. He said, “I need loyalty.”
I didn’t move, speak, or change my expression
in any way during the awkward silence that followed.
On February 14 after a meeting in the Oval Office
the President said he wanted to speak to me alone.
I stayed in my chair.
As the others started to leave, the Attorney General lingered by my chair,
but the President thanked him and said he wanted to speak only with me.
The last person to leave was Jared Kushner,
who stood by my chair and exchanged pleasantries with me.
The President then excused him, saying he wanted to speak only with me.
When the door by the grandfather clock closed and we were alone,
the President said, “I want to talk about Mike Flynn.”
After a few minutes, Reince Priebus leaned in through the door.
I could see a group of people waiting behind him.
The President waved at him to close the door,
saying he would be done shortly.
After the door closed again, the President then said,
“I hope you can see your way clear to letting this go.”
On March 30 in the morning the President telephoned me at my office
and described the cloud that was impairing his ability to maneuver.
He said that he had nothing to do with Russia,
he had not been involved with hookers there
and he had always assumed he was being recorded.
He asked what we could do to lift the cloud.
On April 11 he called me in the morning and asked what I had done.
He added, “I have been very loyal to you, very loyal.
We had that thing you know.”
I did not reply or ask him what he meant by “that thing.”
That was the last time I spoke with President Trump.
God slithered up from underneath the bullion ingots,
flicked his tongue to test the air and raised his head.
“Where’s goddam Holy Ghost? Around here somewhere,
I can vibe him. Well, not him exactly. What the—?
“My beloved prodigal,” he croaks. “But one dumb Savior!
Big-time—lost sight of the forest for a solitary tree.
But Trump? Now what am I supposed to do with you?
A trinity’s not meant to be dualistic—Manichee.”
“Shit, lay off, would you, Pop? I tried my best.
The human vixen needed reassurance, I provided it.
She was a bitch, but who knew that? The thanks I got?—
return to Sender, dear old Dad the Aristarch-in-Chief!
“I know the verse: ‘That thou art happy, owe to God.’
But any fall from bliss is others’ doing, never yours.
You make things perfect, not immutable. So kind!
But how else lay your groundwork for denunciation?”
“I’ll fucking send you back! You seep down here
all ‘Boo-hoo! Daddy, everybody up there turned on me’?
When I dispatched you, you were perfect, shiny new;
in retrospect you lacked the brains to follow through.
“You went to save, but damned yourself. Should I expect
a second trip to Earth might be your re-redemption?
Do I have all this backwards—human beings full of grace,
and we divinities the desperate miscreants?”
I’ve always been a flake. Scotch-taped my tie together—
treated friends like strangers, passers-by like intimates.
Senile dementia, though?
No! How would anybody tell?
Have I once wept at breakfast? Wet my pants in public yet?
I don’t like you Navy doctors. I want my guy. Bornstein.
Lets me eat the food I like—not all that fruit Obama ate.
A great man—kooky too. No tut tut by-the-book advice.
And don’t I get to choose?
I just shot 88—not bad, right?
Everybody loves to hate Trump.
If I dropped dead from a stroke,
the mainstream media would pop champagne!
Cry big, huge crocodile tears. Boo hoo. Poor wife. Poor son.
Boo hoo Mike Pence! Oh, then they’ll realize what they had!
A weasel through and through—
he makes me look like Honest Abe. I’ll never tell a lie.
He wets his briefs each morning looking in the bathroom mirror.
What if voters saw this?
Then his wife knocks and he mumbles, Be right out.
No offense to Indianians, but Pence is Satan’s puppet!
He pretends to be so moralistic, but it’s Crocodile Christian!
What would Jesus do with him?
He’d say, Come follow me—
and Pence would snicker, Wait. I’m almost President!
You know I’ve always been a flake. Senile dementia? No.
I haven’t cried since childhood, and believe me, I’ve had cause!
Nor have I wet my pants since I was 1 or 2—
my mother beat that out of me.
And golf—I just shot 88, okay?
80 Ducklings Died at Lincoln Memorial,
CNN’s front page says—
“The National Park Service will drain
the Reflecting Pool this weekend.
The culprit is—a parasite.”
The other D.C. avians watch fervently—
Trump’s popularity in polls ticks down.
The next day, 7 eaglets
are found lifeless at the foot
of the Washington Monument.
The third day, 700,000 sparrowlings
are vacuumed from the White House lawn
by District sanitation workers.
Posted snapshots of
dead chicks stir Likely Voters up!
The public furor is so great,
impeachment’s passing is unanimous.
The desperate despot’s Twitter rages
but obsession with the hari-karis
out-retweets him 3 to 1.
Wee self-immolators—or their parents?—
cruel, marauding left-wing hawks—
a fake-news artist using Photoshop?—
dethroned The Orange Shah!
Or Putin gives a putsch?
“The Birds!” Trump cries, unglued.
“A Hitchcock masterwork!
And Tippi Hedren plays piano, right?
Huge race of feathered sons-of-bitches!
Tiny chirping traitors!”
The Offending Waitress
You never lift somebody’s glass like that, your fingers on the rim—disgusting, right?
Do it again, you’d better find another job. Not at a doctor office or a hospital. Okay?
And not as one of those hotel maids who insist on folding toilet paper edges to a V!
None of your customers want fingerprints—not on their lips, their butts, or any place!
Is that embarrassing? I’m sorry, dear. You’re lucky to still have your job. Believe me.
And whoever trained you? Would be fired too. The manager is in my doghouse also.
I’m a stickler for details—and hate germs more than anybody—Godliness is cleanly!
If you work for me, you have good hygiene, or you’re back to peddling your resume.
Oh, you can grieve me to your union all you want. It’s in your contract, it’s your right.
The steward is a huge, huge friend of mine. Been with me maybe 20 years, at least.
I know exactly what he’ll tell you, save yourself the trip, he’ll say I did the right thing!
You should thank me. It was not my job to teach you how to handle drinks correctly!
So trot along. It’s not my job to hear you whine. I’m trying to enjoy a peaceful dinner
with my guest here, FBI Director Comey. Heard of him? Good guy. Straight shooter,
everybody says. Now, he does fingerprints! Director, tell her. He could dust them off
my glass right here, and run them on E-Verify—find out if you’re illegal or legitimate.
Just kidding. Go. You learned a lesson. Bring us two new diet Cokes, clean glasses
this time if you don’t mind, please. I really shouldn’t have to say Please, but I still do.
I was always raised to be polite. You too, Director? After cleanliness, good manners.
Even if the other person’s being rude or screwing something up. To be a gentleman.
The White House Choice Cuts Crème de la Crème Kitchen Cabinet Best and Brightest Brain Trust
Secretary of State Tillerson: “I thank you for giving me this privilege.”
Interior Secretary Zinke: “An incredible honor to be your steward.”
Energy Secretary Perry: “My hat’s off to you.”
Housing & Urban Development Secretary Carson: “A great honor.”
Labor Secretary Acosta: “I am deeply privileged and thank you.”
Agriculture Secretary Perdue: “I congratulate you.”
Vice President Pence: “Serving you is the highest privilege of my life.”
CIA Director Pompeo: “It’s an incredible honor.”
Transportation Secretary Chao: “People love you. All of them.”
Education Secretary DeVos: “It’s a privilege to serve.”
Health & Human Services Secretary Price: “I can’t thank you enough.”
Chief of Staff Priebus: “Serving you is a blessing.”
President Trump: “The highest IQ of any Cabinet ever assembled.”
What do you mean I can’t burn papers in the fireplace?
I caught a chill. Reince put the AC up too high.
Were they official papers?
I’m the classifier—the unclassifier too.
So I officialize and unofficialize.
They’re maybe dummies like the ones I once claimed
were the records of the business holdings I divested.
No one needs them: scribbles.
Schoolboy sketches of the New York Jets. Alright?
Huge fan of Number 12.
Joe Namath was a superstar.
He was the Cassius Clay of football—
or Muhammad Ali, if you call him that.
He guaranteed that victory, do you remember? 1969.
Then MVP, although he didn’t throw a touchdown pass.
Not a whisper about Putin. Flynn. Stone. Jared. Manafort.
I never even heard of Carter Page.
I wish I had some firewood. Believe me.
Real wood logs would make much better heat
than doodlings of Broadway Joe!
He wore that big mink coat. That guy had style, right?
Bum knees, though.
Threw a lot of interceptions. But it didn’t matter.
All the football fans and women worshipped him,
with his supreme self-confidence.
The rest is commentary. Fake news, right?
The more flamboyant your offense,
the more the mob enjoys it.
So okay, I’m burning evidence, on camera, unapologetic!
This one is in Russian! Who knows what it says?
The FBI called. They demand the ashes.
I said, Get an order, then get past my Secret Service guy!
Remember Waco? That was something, right?
You think they’ll try to gas us too?
And burn the White House down?
I’ve got a gun. Reince and Ivanka carry too.
Melania—she has those dagger eyes.
So bring it on and make our day!
Bob Mueller. Comey. Clinton’s dirty tricks.
We’ll blow their asses all the way to the Ellipse!
Gloves Off @ the EPA
The following pesticides may be used in schools:
Pyrocide, Demon, Cynoff, Viper, Sniper,
Cyper, CB-Invader, Invict Gold,
Maxforce Magnum, Nylar, Gentrol.
Location of applications: Throughout.
Target of applications: Various insect infestations.
Dates and times planned: Daily, 24 hours.
Possible adverse effects on the students:
Interferes with functioning of nerves and brain,
dizziness, changes in awareness, seizures,
headaches, loss of consciousness, lethargy,
sweating, shortness of breath,
muscle weakness, twitching, salivation,
abdominal cramping, nausea, diarrhea.
Severe? Wait till you see the other guy!
Yeux is their plural of oeil,
went our preterit of go;
affliction kindles inspiration
and depression both.
There’s always hope trumpyears
won’t be as scary as I fear;
unpredictably they might bring
Somebody in a 1-ton van runs down 7 pedestrians
on London Bridge, it’s a huge case of terrorism?
But pilot your 70,000-ton cargo ship amok,
and kill 7 sailors—what, ten miles off Japan? Ho-hum.
It was the Philippinos, right? Who I used to like,
but now I don’t. I want to bomb Manila silly.
Ever wonder why they crippled their transponders,
and then threw a U-turn like that in the dark?
You watch what happens when it goes back out to sea,
one of our subs might accidentally nuke it.
Look out the grimy window
of the abandoned courthouse
at the office of Dr. LaMorte.
Gideon’s bible on the sill.
Let it be dry on the fleece
although the earth is dewy.
Handcuffs firmly clutch
the wood leg of a table.
Unfolded black robes on the floor.
A portrait of the president—
not of Trump, but of Obama—
sounds its faint hosanna.
Yes, my cronies are a crowd of Russians
all in bed with oligarchs, well paid, unpatriotic,
but not me.
I love America.
I want to make her great again, if you recall.
It’s plain to read on my red golfing cap.
If I made money from that Putin mob—
which I don’t see the faintest sign of
in the huge financial filings I’ve made—
I took it from our enemy and brought it here,
enriched the USA, not just myself!
The traitors who manipulated me
and the election all were people, honestly,
I barely know. I took them at their word.
One vetted Two, Two vetted Three
and I had no idea they were so treasonous!
You know me like an open balance book,
a laying out, as clear as day,
of everything inside your venial hearts.
What, after all, is treason but a disregard
of what the poor call love of country?
You know me. It’s dollars and celebrity I love.
My sweet-tooth—jones—is cruelty.
What made America so great the first time round
was naked greed like mine.
Politically correct, back then,
meant paying off the best-connected
and most ruthless Representative.
I never hid. I lied without deceit.
If my gang’s chockablock with thieves?
Off with their heads, I say!
Leave me their Hublot watches
and their Prada boots!
The Targeted Republicans
GOP members of Congress were targeted at a baseball practice in Virginia. If not for the Capitol Police, many of them might have been killed. Special Agent Crystal Griner took a bullet in the ankle.
Michigan congressman Steve Bishop said, “The only reason any of us walked out of there was the grace of God.” Since Griner is an African-American woman, married to a woman, then God is a Black dyke.
– Michelangelo Signorile
In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.
And God said, Let it stay dark: and it stayed dark.
And God saw the dark, that it was good: and God also created light on the side.
And God called the light Wendy, and the dark she called Fine.
And God said, Let us make man not exactly in our image, nor likeness: and let them have no dominion over the fish of the sea, nor the fowl of the air, nor any cows, nor any thing that bleedeth upon the thigh.
And God blessed them, and God said unto them, Go fuck yourselves.
And God saw every thing that she had made, and, behold, it was very good.
Pomp and Circumstance
Farewell the neighing steed and the shrill trump,
The spirit-stirring drum, th’ ear-piercing fife,
The royal banner, and all quality,
Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war!
My mother respected and loved the queen. She loved the ceremony
and the pomp. Pomp and circumstance.
We have to talk. It’s time. Just you and I.
Supposing we raise funds by crowdsource
to buy NBC or Fox for you? No strings?
All Trump And What Trump Likes—All Day!
All night. All week. All month. Year after year.
If necessary, run commercials on your shows
that offer viewers prizes to keep ratings up.
All gold. The whole thing gilt or solid gold.
To save the Commonwealth, the Queen’s agreed
to host a slot at 9AM, New York time—
Pomp and Circumstance—the day’s
top wars and coronations, all with accents,
all with huge, high, chin-strapped beaver hats?
What else? The Neo-Conan Challenge—
Arnold Schwarzenegger back in chains?
In every episode, a clever schoolboy thinks up
ways to freak him out—bugs, girlie men.
The capstone—Presidential Timber—
ten contestants vie to win the audience’s vote?
And All the News That Isn’t Fake—
its journalists and talk show hosts
exclusively harassers and their victims,
the reportage interspersed with re-enactments
of the actual finaglement and sexual success?
You get to keep your staff and hangers-on.
Plum jobs for Bannon, Priebus, Conway, Spicer.
All your kids. Their spouses. Their kids too.
Plus naming rights—Trump this, Trump that—
to any institution of your choice
in every major city where you won the vote.
Trump Oklahoma City International.
Trump Mesa Arizona City Hall.
Virginia Beach Trump Lovers Olde Plantation.
What else? Ah, the Trump Wall Mall! Agreed.
A wonder of the world—your Presidential library
extending all 2000 miles, built right in—
a monument the likes of which
has not been seen in centuries,
and never will again—the one historians will dub
The Straw That Broke a Nation’s Back.
The south side, myriad artisanal cantinas
hawking mariachi-fueled tequila jags.
The north, coin-operated Jesus Will Forgive You
boutique sermon booths—all proceeds
split between your coffer and the NRA.
We’ll throw in three more wishes, to be named
at future dates. We only want you to be happy.
We adore you. Everyone adores you.
The United States is too ungrateful
to deserve you as their head of state—
a role so limiting, the list of shows
you’ve had no choice but to record
is straining the capacity of your gigantic DVR.
What say you, Donald? May I call you that?
Can we be friends? I bow? I kneel. You won.
White House Tapes?
Oh, yes. I might have taped him. What a big, big jerk bag, right?
He claims I pulled his hand and went to kiss him? What the hell.
Edgar Hoover was one too. Real piece of work.
Believe me. I remember it.
He had a guy they gave the flag to at his funeral, who inherited.
Not saying Comey is the same way, I don’t know.
There’s nothing wrong with it.
Though Christians say so. So do Jews. And Muslims.
Lots—or all—religions, really.
A den of liars, leakers, hypocrites.
There are so many moral things
you could accuse both of those FBI directors with. A lot.
Of course I asked him if American elections are secure,
but his whole thing was just to find out if I’d let him keep his job
and if I’ll get more cake than he will or two scoops of ice cream.
At 64, it’s not that my problems are getting worse, Donald.
It’s that I’ve started to turn unhappy.
My whole outlook is growing shittier,
and it looks like there is no way out.
You are the last person I ever imagined turning to for help,
but here you are. Who else is here?
You’re like a toxic alien from space.
You pauperize planets to I and You.
I sense you’re capable of sympathy
as long as I come to you with purity.
I plead, “Donald, you who are my one and only President,
do not detest me in my awful need.”
Trump the Builder
Donald Trump builds businesses!
Donald Trump builds buildings!
Donald Trump builds debt restructures!
Donald Trump makes big investments to create jobs
for our legal immigrants and all Americans!
Donald Trump builds up resentment!
Trump the Builder, can he fix it? Trump the Builder, yes he can!
Donald Trump builds first-class country clubs!
Donald Trump builds a foundation for
continuing regression in America!
Donald Trump builds on our insecurities—
our own proclivities to hatred—
builds a bridge toward troubled waters.
Trump the Builder, can he fix it? Trump the Builder, yes he can!
Donald Trump builds health care!
Better! Cheaper! Everybody will be covered!
Huge heart! Did you think I called it mean?
Obama called it mean! He stole my word!
He stole my word, although I never called it mean!
Obamacare is mean!
Trump the Builder, can he fix it? Trump the Builder, yes he can!
What did Hillary Clinton and Obama build?
No businesses! No buildings!
Zero holes of golf! Not even pitch-n-putt!
I’m serious! Go! Google it! Believe me!
But they did build ISIS! Give them credit, right?
The D.C. swamp! Not smart!
Trump the Builder, can he fix it? Trump the Builder, yes he can!
A wall too! Hugely long and tall! A solar wall!
Illegals flooding in from Mexico, no more!
Plus, Mexico will pay for it!
They might not know it, but they will!
Just like some government or other
always pays for everything I build!
Trump the Builder, can he fix it? Trump the Builder, yes he can!
Donald Trump builds up the military!
Donald Trump builds a conspiracy with Putin!
Donald Trump builds great hotels in Azerbaijan
with the Revolutionary Guards!
Donald Trump builds golden money laundries
with the Russian oligarchs!
Trump the Builder, can he fix it? Trump the Builder, yes he can!
Donald Trump builds battleships from LEGOs!
Donald Trump makes America great!
Donald Trump makes terrorists afraid!
Donald Trump wrote The Art of the Deal!
Donald Trump uses steel made in the USA!
Donald Trump makes melody a mess!
Trump the Builder, can he fix it? Trump the Builder, yes he can!
Did you ever see a dog—the way it marks its turf?
That little spritz of piss means: “I was here first!”
Ripped-out grass means: “This is what I’ll do to your fat face,
if you don’t give me my respect!”
So that’s how I am too—
believe me, everybody loves it!
Did you ever see the way that dogs smell butts?
And not just other dogs, right?—
human asses too!
And cats. Plus wild deer, possums, skunks, and porcupines!
You’ve seen the mutts with quills all in their face?
So that’s how I am! Total dog—huge smell hound!
Dogs either really like you right away, or hate.
You can’t predict! Lick, bite—bite, lick. Which one?
You never know.
Who whispers to the dogs? Lick! Bite!
It’s totally an instinct of their first impression—same with me.
It’s random! Zero thought behind it!
Man’s best friend.
But honestly? The opposite.
We’re dog’s best friends! We feed them—all of that.
They just pretend to be our friend! The wagging tail—untrue!
In fact, they are our best pains in the ass!
We have to pick their shit up. Just like I make you.
Anthem or a Year in Jail
Let me read this. This is from Duterte. In the Philippines. Isn’t he just the best?
“When our national anthem is played at a public gathering, whether by a band,
or singing, or both, or recording in any format, the attending public shall sing it.
The singing shall be mandatory and must be done with fervor. At the first note,
they shall execute a salute by placing their right palms above their left breasts.
This salute shall be completed when the anthem’s final note has been played.”
He wants to make the Philippines great again, or for the first time, I don’t know.
I want to make our nation great again. We used to own the Philippines. Okay?
Today, the President of the United States tweeted the citizenry:
I heard poorly rated “Morning Joe” speaks badly of me
(don’t watch anymore). Then how come low I.Q. Crazy
Mika, along with Psycho Joe, came to Mar-a-Lago 3 nights
in a row around New Year’s Eve, and insisted on joining
me? She was bleeding badly from a face-lift. I said no!
It was 5:58 AM—two minutes before the show came on the air,
a classic Caroline Test preëmptive strike. “Over Niagara Falls!”
Then to watch his vilifiers squirm, he switched the program on.
Who else is he supposed to talk to? Jared—always blabbering
about the legal team? Ivanka—ice cold. Barron isn’t interested.
Reince Priebus—always “Do this. Do that. Do the other thing”?
It’s lonely at the top—the middle and the bottom too. He knows
all three—it’s lonely everywhere. If he knew how to trigger love
as easily as pick a fight, he’d be the second Martin Luther King.
The Patriotic Steward
The beverage steward is a patriot—
had always dreamt of White House work,
but now he’s got it, all he dreams about
is slipping poison to the President.
Pence, Priebus, Bannon, Kushner also—
one more perilously idiotic than the next.
But then he’d be a treasonist
and while away his natural life in jail.
Or else he could resign—a coward’s ploy.
Why kick the problem down the road?
To serve Trump or to murder him—
one choice is right, the other a mistake.
A little strychnine in the Diet Coke?
Or belladonna? What did people use?
A tea of Legionnaire’s Disease or botulism?
Dose himself with Valium instead?
The beverage steward takes a sip
of Reagan’s special stock Germain-Robin.
He’d always dreamt of White House work;
won’t cross this Rubicon half-cocked.
A bright exterminator accidentally comes upon him
in a small trap-door compartment in a closet wall—
Trumpunculus, the doll-sized mini of the President,
who is, in fact, the Prime original—the mastermind
who Six-Foot takes his orders from and answers to.
The Terminix inspector never gets back to his truck.
Trumpunculus himself puts out the cockroach traps.
The golem Six-Foot pulls the bedspread to his chin.
He doesn’t know Trumpunculus exists; his imitation
of a President would only grow more inconceivable;
the early morning hour he awakens to send tweets
before Trumpunculus himself wakes, is admonitory.
Six-Foot has the vague idea that something’s false,
but, naturally perhaps, believes it’s everybody else.
Trumpunculus is tired, though. He’s worked as hard
as any creature should to keep his golem out of jail,
where havoc reaches levels even he finds dolorous.
It isn’t easy balancing the yin and yang of demonry,
to route mischance between too little and too much.
“This is infinity. It could be infinity.
I don’t really know.
But it could be. It’s something.”
The state of Trump attracts attention,
since it’s very possibly
a whole new plane of humankind,
or throwback to Cro-magnon caveman days
when proto-brains aped tiny shrews
trapped in our head.
It comes to be called the Covfefe Principle,
an admission that actual reality
is only bullshit,
thus that true and false are
fundamental dialectic tangible dualities
as there as yin and yang.
“This is infinity. It could be infinity.
I don’t really know.
But it could be. It’s something.”
Melloni succeeded in detecting a raised temperature in moonlight,
which had been condensed by means of a lens three feet in diameter.
– Familiar Astronomy: An Introduction to the Study of the Heavens,
Mrs. Hannah M. Bouvier
I remember you having written that you could not, as Melloni did, find
a heating effect from the full moon’s rays by means of a thermoscope.
– On the Radiant Heat of the Moon, Professor John Tyndall F.R.S.
I’m the sun, just as hot and as strong as the sun. You all know that.
Obama was the moon. Cool. Even cold. So little heat and strength!
My Mother used to say: so weak that laundry hung on clothes-lines
overnight dried quicker on a moonless night, since the evaporation
rate was actually retarded by its rays—a negative, just like Obama.
Think about it. People praise restraint such as atomic power plants,
yet damn atomic bombs—politically correct. Believe me. Those two
A-bombs did more good than peaceful nuclear reactors ever could!
Sometimes you’ve got to break some eggs. In fact, you always do—
If not, they’re only going to sit somewhere until eventually they stink.
At night, the moonlight shines in on my bed—it did in New York, too.
I’d definitely know if there was any warmth in it. I’d say it feels more
like the ghost of snow. Nobody knows what happens on the far side
of the moon. It’s called the dark side but it isn’t dark. We don’t know.
Something’s going on which has a huge effect on what beams down.
Why don’t I draw the curtain? I don’t know. It’s much, much better if
we shut it out, stay out of it. I like the sun—I like to have a super tan.
Who has a better tan? George Hamilton? Alright, George Hamilton.
Obama—he avoided sun. You’d never see him really, really tanned.
He tried to be—I won’t say white—but very pale. For a half Kenyan!
Cool, the moon: so little heat and strength, my mother hated all of it.
Our wash was wetter in the morning than when she had hung it out!
It wasn’t dew. It was the moon, she said. The dampness didn’t want
to turn into a ghost itself, so it laid low, hid in the cotton—didn’t look,
and held its breath, till daylight and the sun made drying safe again.
Trump’s Not Zeus
While a patron of markets, hospitality and Panhellenic sports,
all throughout history Zeus used violence to terrorize humans and get his way.
He fancied himself clever, though lightning-bolts were his weapon of choice.
Trump hurls tweets.
Zeus was very much in charge and indulged his sense of whimsy,
toying with people and ruining the lives of mortals with little regard to his actions.
Although at times he could be generous and rewarding,
he generally made decisions out of anger.
Trump’s decisions sprout from both anger and ignorance.
Zeus was an adulterous womanizer infamous for erotic escapades
resulting in various godly and heroic offspring,
including Apollo, Artemis, Hermes, Persephone, Helen of Troy,
Dionysus, Perseus, Heracles, Minos, the Muses, and Athena.
Trump’s offspring include Eric, Don Jr., Ivanka, Tiffany and Barron.
Overall, Zeus was psychologically primitive and damaged.
Trump’s psychology is stunted and malformed malignancy.
thanks to Tim J. Brennan, and Wikipedia
The Nation’s Face
“Dick Hertz and Connie Lingus, phone call.”
That was always me. I’d call the restaurant
and tell the hostess: “Huge emergency!”
I always told the waitress, “Cock tail, huh?”
A wise guy. Smart-ass. And I’m still that way.
Melania’s embarrassed to go out with me.
But Barron loves it! Adolescent’s dream!
It’s how I got elected. Being the vulgarian.
The common—often very common—touch.
I sold the voting public short and never lost.
I give them melodrama, scandal, fluff galore.
It’s all in who you sling mud at or butter up.
Oh, Trump! He’s gross! Don’t be an jerk.
I’m just the object that your country settled on
to represent itself, so many ballots cast.
I’m nothing but a messenger. Muhammad.
You all wrote the message—are the message.
Ugly, isn’t it? Unfortunately, that’s America.
Quit criticizing me. Guess what?—
It’s time for you to change your life.
The Trump National Golf Club, Rancho Palos Verdes, California Catechism
“Who is God?”
“Well, I say: God is the ultimate.
You know, you look at this?
Here we are on the Pacific Ocean.
How did I ever own this?
I bought it fifteen years ago.
I made one of the great deals, they say, ever.
I have no more mortgage on it,
as I will certify and represent to you.
And I was able to buy this,
and make a great deal.
That’s what I want to do for the country.
Make great deals.
We have to, we have to bring it back,
but God is the ultimate.
I mean, he created this great golf course,
and here’s the Pacific Ocean right behind us.
So nobody, no thing—
so no, there’s nothing like God.”
This Trump Catechism poem fragment was found at
The W.H. is functioning perfectly, focused on HealthCare, Tax Cuts/Reform & many other things. I have very little time for watching T.V.
9:39 AM – 12 Jul 2017
Just as the rest of us,
the out of work, laid up in bed,
corralled in airport holding pens,
the draw is always you.
The TV newsroom talking heads
can’t get enough.
A few expect you’re listening,
a half an hour here and there,
or hot top-story digest
staffers cut and splice.
Your louche shenanigans
do not suffice at all:
we need your eyes and ears
observing us while we object,
bemoan, and gnash our teeth.
You’ll rue the energy expent
on health care, tax cuts,
TV is its own reward.
What we rely on in old age
reveals us, finally.
In his case, Scotch tape.
Scotch tape on his wallet,
slippers, cell phone,
lightshade, window lock.
Here it is on the nightstand.
The valet was begged
to hide it but hadn’t.
He’d fire me, Ms. Trump.
He’d have my head.
He loves that stuff too much.
Scotch tape and Twitter.
Private and public,
twin lights of a senile god.
Trump and his Igloo; or, Nanook of New York
Illimitable, mystifying, desolate,
land at the top of the world.
The kind, brave, simple Eskimo’s
survival depends upon his skill
traversing dangerous ice.
The movie shows Nanook’s family
carrying out various tasks—
skin a walrus, build an igloo.
The original White House, right? It took Nanook—an hour, was it?
Then he cut a window out of ice, dumped kids and wife inside,
a baby seal they had for food, and worked that snow door tight
behind him—”Goodnight, winter.”
That’s what I want to do myself!
Bye-bye, Irene! Bye-bye, world!
Sweet dreams, CNN reporters!
It is very warm and dry in there, they say.
But that’s impossible? Warmed snow must always melt.
Or 33° is warm if you’re an Inuit? Or dry means just a little puddle?
Either way, it beats the shit-storm I endure in Washington, D.C.!
Nail shut the White House doors,
brick up the Oval Office windows,
lock the gates, unplug the phone!
My name’s Nanook—not Trump. My wife is not Melania, but Nila.
Little Barron’s name is Allegoo. I kill fish with my teeth, pull foxes
from their lair with bare hands, and harpoon huge tusky walruses!
I’m very kindly, brave and skillful!
Big gold letters: The Trump Igloo!
1 Park Avenue, the whitest white,
the best address in all New York!
Strength in Numbers
Possessing the strength of an unicorn—
he shall eat up the nations his enemies.
Trump’s top circle, eyes shut tight, invokes God’s aid,
while Holy-Roller palms massage his shoulderblades.
(The Oval Office Prayer Assembly invitation read:
“Hands may be laid but not upon the hair or head.”)
Live iPhone Facebook feeds and whirring cameras
broadcast the Administration’s zealous Christianity.
Affordable Care Act begone! Fake Hillary bedamned!
The D.C. mire steams with devilry, but Jesus saves!
Bless us, O Prince, mankind’s font of alternative fact!
Lord of All
A break in the cloud below his plane reveals
a promontory of dark gray, snow-clad forest,
except that there’s no trees, it’s only frost—
a lower, deeply shadowed curd of cumulus.
The president draws down the window shade.
The hide-and-seek sun-glare hurts his eyes.
A steward brings another ice-cold diet soda
and replaces the small platter of potato chips.
Film Noir, White House
Cruelty waking up
beside its old companion Pity!
Wow. He’s big league, Ray Milland.
Some movie, huh?
Great title. Ministry of Fear.
I pity you.
That doesn’t mean I want to help,
it means I see the place to stick a needle in.
Which wakes my cruelty up.
Don’t ever let your weakness show—
not to the man you love or anyone.
Especially the man you love.
a hundred ways to hurt.
It’s too late now.
Unpity’s not a word.
Once it awakes and gets a taste of you,
it can’t forget, can’t change—
just lusts for more.
It’s you who pities me?
The word you mean is scorn.
The cruelty you want is revenge.
The cruelty I indulge is pure.
Blue Lives Matter Even If Black African or Arab
Only in America a Somalian cop
shoots an Australian woman
engaged to a Minnesota man.
So, it was a terrible accident.
She suddenly ran to the patrol car
and he mistook her for a bad guy.
That the policeman who killed her
is a Muslim, it doesn’t matter.
He could have been anything.
And Australia has many Muslims.
Most people don’t know this.
Twice as many as we have here.
So many people don’t know.
Being a policeman is dangerous.
Terrible mistakes can happen.
The Australians are very shocked,
but they really shouldn’t be.
1500 people are killed each year.
Australia’s no great shakes itself.
Neither is Somalia, believe me.
It’s only in America where
an African cop, who’s a good guy,
shoots an Australian woman
engaged to a man in Minnesota.
Trump on Smut
Look, I was in a porn flick once, small part, no sex, a little cameo.
And I was interviewed in Playboy magazine,
I hung around a bit at Playboy, sometimes with Melania, alright?
“I’ve never watched it” was a lie.
I watch, but not like some do, every day, all day, at work, alone.
I watch with other men, for fun, or on a date, to shape the mood.
It’s pretty harmless stuff Melania and other fashion models used
for extra income early on in a career, and I support—approve.
I’ve never been a big-time prude.
Fake sex. I’ve worked in fake sports too—Hulk Hogan, all of that.
It’s basic human fantasy. Your violent rapists don’t watch porn.
Your murderers don’t go to Wrestlemania.
Porn blows off steam, and does a ton more good than harm.
Believe me. Basic entertainment, nothing more.
My Mom would get up from her grave, but if she had a bit of joy
while Dad was off at work, she might have even lived past 88!
But “men are naughty boys,” she always said,
and turned her eyes away from my and Daddy’s little vices.
No one ever pegged me for a saint. I never said I was!
If there’s a God and Hell, and all of that, my only hope
is that Saint Peter has the same endearing attitude my mother did.
Who knows? Hugh Hefner maybe has a place up there,
the bunnies all with sexy little harps and little wings on them.
To each their own—in Heaven, that seems only fair.
The holy rollers—Mike Pence and his lovely wife, for instance—
live exactly how their morals dictate,
while the well-intentioned libertines can have their fun.
Yes, I’ll enforce all laws! The first thing I asked Sessions
was to find out if the D.C. statutes differed from New York.
He gave me Stanley vs. Georgia, a unanimous Supreme Court—
home, in private—First Amendment rights—
no children though—can’t act in them, can’t watch them.
Adults only. I said, “Sorry, Barron, not till you’re 18! Wish I could!”
Just kidding. Do I have to say that? Just a joke.
Oh hell, I’ll bet he’s got a cyber-stash that makes mine look
like fucking Beauty and the goddamn Beast!
You either like it or you don’t. A lot of people don’t think
William Shakespeare had a great deal of artistic merit either.
But they didn’t try to pass huge laws against it, though.
Believe me, there’s a lot of high school kids who would have!
All those other great, great writers who were called obscene
and banned—but then their censor was reversed? So who knows?
Harry Reems and Linda Lovelace might become
a future J.K. Rowling and John Steinbeck!
And the boys in high school would be, “Do we have to?”
The irreligion isn’t real.
The polls—completely fake.
And the attendance numbers fraudulent.
The crooked heathen media
invented this so-called apostasy.
I’m popular. So popular. Almost absurd.
A basket of deplorables?
A sect of superstitious morons?
Somewhere in their snobby rat-hole
6 or 7 self-important atheists
are penning phrases to malign me—
but they’ll never get away with it!
From all the rival cults and creeds,
I get the hugest compliments.
They rave—I’m doing this amazing job!
We’re saving more souls, better,
at the highest rate in history!
Except in Sweden. Bad!
But I won’t lie to you.
That’s something I will never ever do.
The golf’s been awful, frankly—
both the irons and the woods.
My caddie is like, “O my Lord!”
At least the putting’s up to snuff.
I have my gorgeous Magdalen. And smart.
My kids, and grandkids.
Life is beautiful for Christ! So great.
That is my dream for everyone.
I want the ordinary people
to be just as popular as I am.
Jobs. I have a 5-star job, okay?
I’m blessed. I have the greatest job.
Amazing job. And I want everyone
to have the job he daydreams of.
That’s why I’m bringing millions
of the best jobs back.
Remember Ronald Reagan? Right?
The secular and pagan criticized him.
“Very terrible! A false god!”—
rang alarms about grim twilight—
while supporters all were,
“Morning in Morality!” The best!
I challenge you to find 12 people—
unapostles—who believe I’m reigning badly.
Not illegal immigrants!
We understand the immigrants.
Or wild feminists—they’re always sad.
The blacks love Christ!
The LGBT’s all applaud me!
Every pundit warned, “They’ll pray to Hillary.
At most a third will bow to you.”
But look what happened—landslide!
See? Admit it. Am I right?