Obama was the nicest guy - Intelligent and cool.
Comparatively speaking, his successor plays the fool.
Ridiculous and baseless tweets, The Donald can't avoid.
His recent missives indicate he's turning paranoid.
Barack Obama seems to be Trump's ongoing obsession.
Obama saved the U.S.A. from Bush-induced recession.
The Donald hates Barack's success and can't leave it alone,
and Trump, now "off the rails", claims Obama bugged his phone!
Trump's offered no supporting facts for his emphatic claim.
No warrants from the F.B.I. or C.I.A. to blame.
Perhaps he thinks Barack Obama has a super-power
that lets him fly high in the sky to break into Trump Tower.
So, do you wonder, Donald Trump, just where Barack is now?
Is he there behind the curtains? Is he in the walls somehow?
Is he watching from the ceiling? Is he in the chandelier?
Is he in your 15th closet? Do these thoughts fill you with fear?
Is he down at Mar-a-Lago, in the old groundskeeper's shed?
Is he disguised just like Melania, right there in your bed?
The truth may be much worse than that! Does it fill you with dread,
to realize Barack is living... deep inside your head?
Link to video of this poem: https://youtu.be/lYz2aE59x1E
Written March 11, 2017
Mr Douglass is doing well
doing big things
in America today,
yes he is.
Ben took me with him
& I met some too,
but the Press
love this country
and did big things,
& I like them,
I really do.
All this shallow
from a man
the very legitimacy
of America's first
questioned it day
Birtherism is not too subtle really,
you have a black man
with a foreign
you keep on
questioning his birth place,
his college records,
his very right
to be where
It’s a deliberate thing,
its not hidden
& at its core,
Its questioning a
black mans place,
a black mans rights,
a black mans worth,
it was not subtle,
in this land,
when the first
took his place.
of a black man’s
is an evil,
this is how
Donald J. Trump
made his name
female role model
working for a better future
To see Barack
Of Whites, Blacks
Browns and Yellow
Multiplicity of life
To dreams that lift
Into stars, of equality
And God of all
A son has risen
Marta C. Weeks
January 20, 2009
Deathreat Men: send them to Wormwoodscrubs
before they send us to Heaven, that hirise open prison
Theserpent on community service scrubs,
coiled round God's telescopic mop of seven drawtubes,
whilst those who never did no wrong perdure
thru harpyclappy purgatory of praise 'n' orison,
where yawn even those saints whose patience
commands hagiolatry amongst the other saints.
Another round of kumbayah on goddy guitar
even has the canonised crowd covet deaf frets
or tempted to trespass into the path of a passing
as it reaps, threshes and winnows the sheep from the goats.
Heaven makes Bawburgh look a partytown,
reciting the Lor'prurgh means thine is the humdrum, the snorer
and the boring forever and ever, oh man...It's only Heaven
coz there Azrael is a dodo; there's no
repomonstrous, osseous, controversial figure
in a cowl by the name of SkullymcSkullface
in Heaven's Who's Who. There, there's no
mortality to terminologically
qualify that ultimatum which is the M.O.
of the Deathreat Men:
no death to define what is weapon.
But there isn't really any God to own a drone called Azrael,
so how can Obama's drones be Raguels?
Therefore there is no Heaven
other than the Earthly Death Of All Deathreat Men,
other than an ironic forest of scaffolds
it's only human not to build in a day.
Any more to it than that and we're on
a superstitious hiding to nothing,
and may as well redeem Deathreat Men by reclassifying them
Chaoschristians, who by lucky fatal accident
bring forward our freedom from their sins
when they do us in.
Thank you. For everything.
Cecilia touched the red splotch on my polo shirt, removed it with her finger, and wriggled her nose, as the overhead light brightened with a hazy blue. She licked her finger. I was just glad when she pulled out a chair, sat down, moved closer to me, as I poured myself a vodka cran. Cecilia clapped her hands once, and then clapped them again, as the ceiling slowly morphed into a blanket of green smoke. I guess it looked more like the planet, as the smoke turned into small pockets of water blue.
She closed her fingers over my wrist and choose to look at the floor. "What happened to the carpet?" Cecilia asked, her eyes raising. "What do you mean?" I asked, looking down at my feet that were drenched in honey and chocolate. The TV crackled to life and a picture of Joey Biden appeared and he was writing in a diary. He wore a tennis hoodie, sweatpants, and Birkenstocks.
“What do you think he’s writing?” Cecilia asked, as she munched on a pineapple.
Joey put his pencil down on the desk, then walked over to the window on the right-hand side, opened it, and took a green bong sitting on his nightstand, ripped it, letting out a plume of smoke.
I shrugged and took a large bite out of of the pineapple.
“Something funny? Something serious?” Cecilia asked again, not seeming to notice the green smoke filling up the living room.
“You want my honest opinion?” I asked. The walls trembled from the hammers beating against them. A baby grand piano was being played somewhere upstairs. Outside, stray dogs were barking up a rainstorm. I tossed the pineapple over my shoulder and pulled a candy bar sticking out of the couch cushions. I felt the years of decay and melted caramel apple coating my palm, as I hunched forward, and tossed the candy bar out the windows. The dogs howled gratefully and crooned an old jazz bebop tune.
Cecilia laughed, clicking her heels together. “No, lie to me like you do when I ask you, ‘does this dress make me look fat,” she said, as Joey reached up to his bookcase and inserted his diary in between a history text book and Joseph Heller’s Catch-22. He sighed, closed his eyes, and began to talk in Portuguese.
“He’s writing something about weed. Probably because he just got high,” I said, as I put my hand over my mouth and yawned.
Joey stopped talking in Portuguese and then he got up, walked over the TV screen, touched a button. The screen went black.
Cecilia’s face was shrouded in green smoke, green as crinkled dollar bills. “Do you want to go to sleep?” she asked, stepping over the passed-out brown bear laying in a puddle of honey and chocolate.
“It’s our anniversary,” I said, moving my finger gently over a plush red box. I turned and looked at Cecilia who was grabbing my face and kissing it. The box fell into the honey and chocolate, sticking to the floor.
I bent down, picked up the box, and opened it. A paper airplane floated out and unfolded itself, landing neatly in Cecilia’s hands. She began to read it, “Dear President Obama. Thank you. For everything…”
I closed my eyes and listened to an old Louie Armstrong record playing on a turntable a foot away in the kitchen. The needle scratched. Then, the volume lowered down.
The curtains closed.
And the TV buzzed as the dogs burned each house in the neighborhood.