3 a.m. Twitter rantings. The frequent
Bouts of spirit writing. Fingers pecking
Like a field full of hens rushing in on
A computer keyboard in the midst of
A falling handful of feed. The morning
Covfefe and the nicknames like red neck-
Ties pulled so tight. Raining down fire and
Fury like rocket man. Like you’ve never
Seen. Like the storm’s urge of goiter flowing
Over his weak chin. And the circular
Purse of lips like a hanged man grasping for
One last breath of air. Fighting to hold on
To purpled tongue thrusting from rush of blood.
A half waking dream holding to something.