Our world is in a mess.
There is no denying.
I send money so people can help.
I love doing that.
There are wars.
People getting hurt on all sides of our polygon,
They're dying in all manner of ways.
I love the way people will fight for their convictions,
Fight till death if need be,
For FREEDOM, LIBERTY, HAPPINESS.
I love that.
I love people in detention for their beliefs,
Their faith, hope and determination.
I know what bog schools are, penal laws, Black and Tans.
(I also know about cages, Jim Crowe, and Proud Boys).
I love their tenacity. I love their lives. They matter.
I love their politics, their altruism; the really giving of oneself,
To serve one's nation. To truly love one's country.
For these reasons,
I love Sleepy Joe.
He gives so gracefully.
Sacrifices the remainder of his life for his country,
His people, His family.
I love how the Tyrant will collapse,
Feeling betrayed, mocked, humiliated, parodied,
Jeered at, ostracized for his megalomania.
A shower will never wash away the
Odor breathed among his consorts.
Brushing will not diminish the Trump taste, the rot in your mouth.
I love Aristotle's Poetics, The Wheel of Fortuna, The Great Chain of Being, and the cathartic effects of tragedy.
I Love Life.

Little Don from the suburbs has become leader of the Free World.
Little Don sits in the seat of kings.
Little Don from the suburbs was raised in the borough of Queens
and born into the cruelty of capital.
Little Don from the suburbs has squandered his toys
and gilded everything with golden plasma from the sun.
Little Don from the suburbs has fused the Confederate flag
on his skin, his orange skin.
Little Don is the vehicle that drives the economy and the Dukes of Hazzard.
Little Don desperately needs to sit down because it’s getting late.
Little Don from the suburbs loves all the little brown children
to death.
Little Don truly loves America, but all that love has gone awry
in his crotch.
Little Don from the suburbs is the Mad Hatter because
he blows his top sometimes,
and his hair, his yellow hair, has become his hat.
This is the dawning of the Little Don’s transparency, his sleight
of hands,
his raging, bulging, red eyes, his foaming rhetoric from the mouth.
Little Don from the suburbs drapes himself in red, blue, and white.
In different patterns of stars and stripes.
Little Don from the suburbs carries a sacred Book with him sometimes
and raises it up on high, but it’s upside down.
And who am I? I’m just a voice, a blip in the radar, but Little Don,
Little Don from the suburbs, has become leader of the Free World.

The adulterer has the ****** Virus,
And 45 needs to distance
Six thousand miles;
Cover his face;
Buy XS gloves;
Add a cup of bleach,
Light up his interior,
And wipe away the time
Spent behind SDNY bars.

I wonder how my ancestors feel
Knowing their escape from home
Would lead
To children ***** in cages

Traced
Nameless
Unheard of conditions
Like their rabid dogs

But really puppies still needing their mothers milk

Who made those cages you call sanctuary
Who made those tinfoil sheets you call warmth
Who made those regulations?
Ripping the child from their parents grip
I've seen the ******* pictures
Those kids were strangling their mothers and fathers in order to not let go

There's no need for translation
This is universal
These children are treated like felons
With no warrant
No warning

Is this justice?
Does my so called president get off to this?

Is he not satisfied enough with his spray tan?

He takes it out on us?

I wake up in my bed
Every day I cant fathom
The nightmare those children wake up to
Alone with others like that look just like them.
Looking in the reflection their tears molded onto the shivering pavement

I cant even imagine

The thoughts that may race through their young and impressionable minds

Do they think they deserve it?
Do they think this is their fault?

If and when they do finally escape

How scarred will they be?

They already have a criminal record for being born

How will they survive in a society that imprisoned them before given an education

Before given a ******* a chance.

To weaken him,
He sent the archangel Virus;
To muffle him,
He sent the St. Michael storms.

We love my mashed potatoes,
With butter on our plates;
But at the Trumpian table,
We'd eat from Donnie's pate.

When the son-in-law
(who should remain nameless)
Is a clone
Of the father-in-law,
(whom should also remain nameless),
The son-in-law
Lies in an incestuous bed,
And the father-in-law
Gets a vicarious jump
On the wing
(the west one)

Nero fiddled,
POTUS diddled,
The outcome is the same.
Handbaskets are in flames.
I, said:
Others are to blame.

Stupid is as stupid does.
Tupid is as tupid sounds.
Upid is as upid sounds.
Pid is as pid sounds.
Id is...
Donald.