There is no poetry
in the maskless man’s eyes.

I see only star spangle
stripes mangled
in the pursuit of
more stuff.

****** and mayhem,
bald strongman
wannabe dictator,
stealing from
Orwell’s playbook,
even though
he never read it.

There is no art
only orange skin sinking
as compassion keeps
on shrinking
while loved one
go on shrieking
sobbing and speaking
seeking some sort of
justices for those
they love.

There is no hope
except a broken heart
torn apart
till his kindness
turns to rage,
till the pain of others
turns him to
the hate of those
who hurt and cover
what they do
with the camouflage
of a flag and god.

Today, I am gleeful
smirking with evil
thoughts toward
a human I abhor,
because kindness
seams to be
a weakness
I don’t need.

Dreams are just
particles of dust,
passing in
the torrential winds.

I do not know
if I will ever be
the man of hopeful mercy
that used to write
starlight
and spaceship poetry.

Especially, when
I want to see
the president die horribly.