Well on his way to waking to the world
As a speaker. President Trump fished in
The deep water. If more people would have
The spark to understand his points. If he
Weren’t so eloquent. The best speaker.
Never over the line either way. The
Biggest vocabulary. That’s a word
You might not have heard “vocabulary.”
It’s got the same root as vocation and
I am going to create millions of jobs.
The best jobs. Because taking Trump’s side on a
Subject makes small thinkers lump you in with
The fiction that even “The Donald” would
Have any trouble being understood.
He was a force in sports walking down Sea
Foam, Breaker, and Windward to the field by
The jetty. Ball, bat and glove in hand, he
Would meet the other kids. If they all showed
It would be a lazy Saturday game.
They’d rotate the at bats and each kid’d keep
His own score. As the day wears on, some of
The kids would wander home to “check in” or
“Get a snack.” The rest of them would jeer with
Calls of “pussy” and “mama’s boy.” When skies
Darken, he would wander home with his ball,
Bat, and glove dreaming of the next game and
Dreading the false structure of a boring
Sunday of scriptural contemplation.
But he would experience death. Image
Through the mass of humanity and stop.
Billy was a small kid. Dead. For he was.
He wasn’t willing to wait in all this
Work. It had begun luggage in language.
Today, Jenkins would take full advantage
Acid tearing away your breath. Feeling
Of the badges perks. He walked past the line
Carver of art. The other. The outside.
The gate shook but didn’t budge. Jenkins turned
Converting to Islam. And were he to
This time, he pointed to his badge and said,
A breath mint. A compilation of short
Hey, let me through. The man in the booth scoffed.
Next to the turnstile, he flashed his badge
To the booth and pushed the handicapped gate.
The booth man leaned into the microphone.
“You ain’t one of ours. You pay like the rest.”
Badge in hand, Jenkins eyed a uniformed
Officer standing passed the gate keeping
The crowd back from the yellow safety zone.
Jenkins said, “Hey! Tell him to let me pas.”
The officer walked over. He looked at Jenkins
And his badge. Slightly shook his head. Looked to
The booth, and said, “Go on. Let the man through.”
The clerk rolled his eyes and buzzed Jenkins through.
The officer said, “The guy is an ass.
Jump the turnstile. The fuck’s he gonna do?”
In the subway terminal, Jenkins pulled
His shirt away from his chest and pumped it
Back and forth to circulate the cool air.
The air conditioner took the edge off
The triple digit temperatures of late
October. This Indian summer brought
A shroud of strangling humidity
Not unlike the lingering barnyard smell
Of body odor and urine of the
Typical subway stop. Not only was
There a long line to get through the turnstiles,
But the place was jammed with people standing
Around dripping sweat. Likely, most of them
Had stopped in to take a break from the heat.
He spent a week of work deemed dead by the
Frenzied emperors of life. They call it
Incident. Frenzied over the death hoax.
Totalitarian bleeding heart libs.
The church had led astray their heartstrings.
Striking heart with a long tipped cigarette,
When they were diminutive mortals who
Would tear into the flesh of their patron,
The blazing hearth Latino. And given
Hand embarrassed as cold greasy burgers.
Even the trout died from the fish that
Sat atop the step and pulled his stringer.
His words were soft deadbeats that refused to
Speak breadwinner. They die. He does. He’s dead.
They honor his tax return. Got rusty
Violence. The person after the poem.
Nintendo—Now you’re playing with power.
He seemed to thrive on things being his fault.
When power refers to yourself, that is.
Twenty-eight percent pile below and
Convincing of the legalization
Drew up from the corridors of trade.
Obstinate state of marijuana will.
Feelings leapt of nosegay politicians
Up to my chest, up the elbow. Only
Not going to church. He writes boy scouts in.
He’s just feeling balls of the poll about
Logic fails—Removal of paper backed concepts.