If you wish the sympathy
of the broad masses, you
must tell them the crudest
& most stupid things,

& it is quite a special secret
pleasure how the people
around us fail to realize
what is really
happening to them,

& make the lie big,
make it simple,
keep saying it,
and eventually
they will
believe it.

& all propaganda must be
popular and its intellectual
level must be adjusted to
the most limited intelligence
amongst those it is
addressed to,

& history comes around
& many of the tried &
trusted methods for
running things just
keep on making
that eternal return
don't they.

Just seeing that dumb red hat
gives me the Heebeejeebees,
the Holy Camoleys,
I get the *******,
the John B. Scrotes,
I feel Ben Carsoned,

as if I've been Rogered in my sleep
by Quasimodo & then been forced
to pleasure the Seven Dwarfs,

I have the shivers,
I plead repugnance,
I share the odium,

I experience that near frenzied disgust
as left by a cold slug traversing one's
naked arm in the dank moonlight,

when that oh so ridiculous red tractor
hat is worn by men who have
chauffeurs & bejeweled
golf carts,
& look like a fat cat's fantasy
of a fat cat,

to Make America Great Again for that matter
maybe you have to go as far back as Sitting Bull,
Red Cloud, the Shawnee, herds of bison,
counting coup, & eagle-feather headdresses,

Making America Great Again does not in any
way involve Leroy from the hills feeling better
about his race or Donald J. Trump coming
forth as some sort of Poor Man's Moses.

I hate that stupid hat!

Just because I think it would be a beautiful
idea if Trump & Bannon could be strapped
down in a Rocket aimed for the outer
reaches of the infinite starry galaxies
doesn't mean I wish them gone,

& just because I'd love to see Julian Assange
work the mines in the deepest bowels of
the high Ecuadorian mountains
doesn't mean I wish him ill,

& just because I'd be so satisfied by Mitch McConnell
pimped out on a Detroit street in mid-winter
while his man keeps an eye-out from a
warm & very smooth cadillac nearby
doesn't mean I wish him a tough evening,

& just because I'd be real chuffed to see Paul Ryan
in all his 'What Me Worry' shallow smile
earnest do-gooder front be flown to Calcutta
as shock-therapy & made to clean the wounds
of leprous beggars,
doesn't mean I'm sensing justice,

& just because I really am down with that oh so
sincerely evil David Duke being forced to perform
street cleaning duties in darkest Baltimore
doesn't men I'm feeling righteous,

& just because I'm very, very o.k. with the idea &
then the actual practice of some sort of natural
justice doesn't mean I'm being unrealistic,
a dreamer, or need to relax awhile.

These are my dreams folks.

Do we really think they care?
Trump voters that is,
about shady Russian ties to dark oligarchs
& billion ruble deals,
conflicts of interest,
ties made in China,
family business entanglements?

day after day of golf,
Mar A Largo Winter White House hustle,
enormous Secret Service bills as the
Trumps are scattered here, there
and it seems everywhere,

dicey handshakes,
White Supremacists in the White House,
the American Constitution,
Legal niceties such as checks
& balances,
day after day
lies about this,
& lies about that?

hypocrisies & shallow
empty throw-aways
at the African American
Museum,
Sean 'Fool me two times' Spicer,
media bans,
EPA anti-science,
utterly insane
nuclear pronouncements?

a huge, very huge
military budget,
some backtracking
on the wall,
word salad Muslim ban
justifications?

an overweight, ignorant
orange-faced hustler
just counting those
dollar bills as
he rakes
them in?

Do we really think
they care?

I think not because
well first off
at least now there isn't
a black, Kenyan, Islamist
Marxist running things,

we can all be so thankful
for that,

& all the other stuff
just seems by the way
in comparison.

If you will **** my soul,
I will lick your funky emotions.

Hey baby … what’s your thing?
What say we touch each other?
Oooh yeah … fly on … fly on …

Oh such sweet sounds,
such goodness
such …
uh huh … oooohhh yeah,
Lord ….

& the band plays …
boom boom boom boom ba boom

& the bass rolls on,
feel that baby?
let me kiss your mind.

& the ladies sing …
bah bah bah bah bah

& the drum snares on,
the ladies return,

oh Mommy what's a Funkadelic? ...
I do so love this song.

It helped me a lot
this dark
& just plain wicked day.

'An inquiry examining institutional *** abuse in Australia has heard 7% of the nation's Catholic priests allegedly abused children between 1950 and 2010.'

Can the bricks from all the churches
create orphanages,

can the cloth from all the robes
warm the freezing,

can the wine from all the altars
cheer the helpless,

can the jewels from all the crosses
fund the starving,

can the gold from all the goblets
ease the suffering,

can the wood from all the pulpits
house the homeless,

can the glass from all the windows
frame the darkness,

can the bones from all the priests
fertilize the fields,

can the pain from all the suffering
be acknowledged,

can the tears from all the children
be as witness,

can the crimes of all the clergy
be always remembered,

can the church in all its guilt
be just obliterated.

For a brief ...
so, so brief ...

a tiny sliver
of a moment
this early
Monday
morn,

young Gianni Rage
considered a,
how shall I put it ...
less ruthless,
less uncompromising,
less just plain truthful,
critique of our
oh so esteemed
Great Leader,

but then that
faint & distant murmur
at the far, far edge of his heart
was quickly silenced,
as he recalled
dying Syrian children,
emboldened White Supremacists,
fearful crop-workers,
deeply nervous Muslims,
irremediably insulted
black folks,

& his pen became
his sword once
more & all
was right
once again
with the world.

Gianni Rage is a wordsmith on FB, pay a visit why not.