2:30AM EST:
too damned early
and much too late
for anything sensible
to happen.
incandescent lights
are burning brightly,
curtains are drawn
open wide so that
the shame emitting
from El Casa Blanca is
fully exposed. an electric
orange-hued payaso,
disguised as a world leader,
sitting in an easy chair,
puts on a show with his
stubby fingers.
he juggles words
on iPhones and laptops.
hide the sharp objects,
the full-grown buffoon
is wasting precious time.
tweet after tweet after tweet,
sarcastically stupid spiels
start surfacing
in one-hundred-forty
worthless, well-woven,
worrisome characters:
poppycock that takes
two seconds to spell check.
“F it, no one will notice,”
he thinks to himself.
nobody monitors the jester,
nor sees the sinister smile
spread across his face.
proudly he embraces this fiasco
he’s labeled “his reign”
as the greatest lampoon ever.
the cutup presses send
and the world is in awe.
the first act is over.
sadly, all the world is his stage.
