September Poem 45: Loosen Your Tie, Mr. President

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.




September Poem 39: Ghazal for Trump

Both he and Mrs. Universe were in porns.

They loved their porns. It was a big problem

When Trump paid his taxes.


It made all the papers and

Should have been great for business

When Trump paid his taxes.


His accountant had misunderstood a joke. The Trump

Has the best deadpan… don’t know who said it, but it was said

When Trump paid his taxes.


He was just being stupid because

Not paying taxes makes you smart

When Trump paid his taxes.


He died a

Little inside

When Trump paid his taxes.


He was still

Just a punchline

When Trump paid his taxes.


Who the hell am I kidding?

He never paid his taxes

When Trump paid his taxes.

September Poem 13: In the Aftermath of Charlottesville

Continuing to two big handfuls of

The former ethnic resentment. In the

Corner of a still protruding anger.

Examining the ruins, a small group

Has gathered to stare, faces reddened by

A mix of sorrow and shame. It’s a stare

Reddened by the lips of President Trump.

Reddened by the late denouncement of the

Nazi Party. Reddened by collusion

With Antifa the communist terror

Group. Reddened by a country so falsely

Divided. Reddened by those who demand

Dissolution of the constitution.

Violence on both sides. On many sides.

September Poem 12: The Fast Food Presidency

See the lip of President. The wispy

Lip of Mister Five O’clock. The orange

Crusted spray tan lip. The thin sheen of fried

Chicken grease as finger lickin toupee

Gel. The favorite hair grease of the white suit

Kentucky Colonel of the United

States. Selling junk food as political

Propaganda. The great wall of Chinese

Food cooked by Mexican chefs. A cap on

The maximum number of shawarma stands.

Pesticide planes spraying Cheeto dust on

Major North Korean targets. Make the

Cheeseburger great again. And blini. It

Wouldn’t be bad if we ate more blini.

September Poem 1: Burning in Effigy

The next contestant, who knows? When the truth

Circling the fishing boat like angry seagulls cries out

Of the rigging of the game. Too much. I’m

Slappin’ yo’ mama’s grass skirt like the fish

Monger that gives heads up when tossing fish

From one to another. Cry out there’s a

Fish aimed at your head. The hobbling of your

Thoughts somewhere, nowhere. Like the teardrops from

My single eye and everywhere around.

Kicking risers with the CPU fan’s

Buzz. The silent background buzz that without

Which causes mobs to run in and jump on

Donald Trump burning in effigy of

George W. Bush. The Running Man won.

August Poem 29: Speaking Meditation

Worker who has to make up the public

Violence. Words are not sticks or stones. They are

That glass’s condensation as working.

President Trump. If he were eloquent.

Wouldn’t be bad if the poetry gets

Cold. Speaking meditations. On things owned.

Directed out of the static essence.

Pine trees. Pickled pig’s lips. Anything sold.

Solid. Delusioned. Private. Growing like

Weeds. Walmart garlic flavored racial strife.

Once gave the mid-morning the second day

People that speak those vile and evil words

Fried emotional nature. Destroyed.

This as a work for you to recreate.

August Poem 8: POTUS Donald J. Trump

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.

April Poem 16: NaPoWriMo

Some, by hiring, see lessons
Through the United States.
They of unskilled lynchings, in apartments,
Are your vote for Donald Trump.
They, the contradictory family,
Are forced to beg the artist.

By the emperor’s order, I swam
On their fears about suffering.
As a way to diminish you,
A better happier worker.
I slept about eight beginning where all was lost.
Becoming terrible, sober, opposite.

October 28 Poem

American idiot.

Original but totally

Himself a Trump.

He found tricks.


I tossed the bait.

The fish jerked in his hands.

One touch.

Some call it cheating.



I try the anger.

Big league,

But it old, guys.

No stamina.


They were so poor

They removed the guts

They couldn’t afford.


The knife cavity off his heart

Thanks fingers.

Guns a hammer disgusting.

Born with a hammer,

But it has a soul.


It’s a Dear John poem

In bad need of revision.