Day One:
the pen slashes—
Twenty. Six. Orders.
ink, not thought,
bleeds across parchment.

Questions?
(there are none)

Eliminated:
trans lives,
under a banner stitched from lies—
“feminism,”
they call it.
What do they call the silence?

Borders tighten.
“Maximum vetting,”
he says,
as the doors close
on hope,
on freedom,
on futures.

A hand waves,
pardons fall
like confetti—
1,500 violent rioters
cheer in their wake.
The Capitol weeps,
its wounds still raw.



We pull back, pull away,
from the world’s hands:
WHO?
Paris?
No.
The globe spins colder
without us.

The camera stares:
his signature sprawls,
blind,
blank,
bereft of meaning.
“What is it?” he asks—
too late.

TikTok ticks
a delayed
doom.
A political ploy
Misunderstood by the masses.

Behind the curtain:
facades fracture,
truth whispers,
fear shouts.

A country waits,
chained to a pen
that scrawls without reason.
A nation watches,
As the ink dries into scars.

All in a day’s work.