Donald Trump has a dream: A presidential inauguration speech

    ~ after MLK

My fellow Americans, I am happy to join you today
in celebrating the second greatest moment in human history:
the day you elect me as President of these United States,
second only to the day of my birth, the day God smiled
his brightest smile, brighter than the Big Bang
which of course never happened.

Some years ago, six to be exact, the Supreme Court,
which casts its great shadow over every vagina,
overturned Citizens United. This decree was HUGE,
granting every corporation a birth certificate,
finally freeing billionaires
to buy politicians like shares of penny stocks.

But even now billionaires must struggle in secret
for the joys of owning a country.
Even now there are those blocking traffic,
holding up cardboard signs,
shouting “Black Lives Matter.”
Even now 99 percent of this nation
feels entitled to their fair share of the ocean,
the wealth we sweat out of the slaves.
Hey, don’t blame us because we’re better than you.

Some people think the White House is a bank,
writing blank checks
on the backs of the Constitution
and the Declaration of Independence.
Hey, get a job.

The Hand-Out Bank for Freeloaders is bankrupt,
corrupt, all those checks are about to bounce.
If you’re gonna put your name on something,
put it on greatness,
an idea you wear like a shark skin suit.
Failure is just another mortar
between the bricks of the walls
we’ll build around Texas.

This is not the time to condemn the KKK.
This is not the time to accept Muslim prayer.
This is not the time to get hair plugs.
We must raise ourselves out of the quicksand
of socialism and onto the Plymouth rock
of the Founding Fathers’ erections.

If the blacks and the Mexicans
want to riot and rape
let them do it
in the ghettos they were born in.
America deserves to be great,
embossed in gold,
spray tanned.
America is a casino that always wins.

At the same time, I love everybody.
The blacks love me.
I love Mexican food.
If you want to stab a colored girl,
at least drag her out of the room first.
I don’t want to see that.

We must not hate all Muslims
for causing 9/11.
We just have to kill the terrorists
and then kill their families
and their families’ families.
That’s how you end terrorism.
Every American must pledge
to buy a gun and sleep
with it under their pillow.

People ask me, “When will you be satisfied?”
And I tell them, “That’s easy.
Soon as this country is great again.
Soon as the dollar is worth more
than the Euro. Soon as China
calls me up and begs ME for a loan.
Soon as Russia puts America
back on speed dial.”

I know times are tough,
and just getting tougher.
But hard work is itself
a form of redemption.
Go home tonight and lose yourself
in the task at hand,
the task of building something
bigger than yourself,
the Great Pyramid of Trump.

Even though the future is uncertain
as a Magic 8 ball filled with tomorrows,
I believe in the American Dream.
My dream is your dream is your dream.

I have a dream that this nation will find God,
that the Bible can replace every school book,
that science and math become Sunday Studies,
that people realize Global Warming is a scam.

I have a dream that in the deserts of Nevada
casino owners and congressmen
can both be served by drunk Indians
at the buffet tables of fortune,
that the Small Pox blankets of the past
can become the fur rugs of the future.

I have a dream that my billionaire friends
can be judged not by the size of their towers,
not by the shades of their spray tans,
not by the thickness of their comb-overs,
but by the content of their wallets.
That my children can travel to Africa
to kill the elephants, the lions, the black rhinos,
and display their trophies with pride
in the sunsets of the serengeti.

This is a good dream. Best you ever heard.

I have a dream that one day on Twitter,
a billionaire can share posts
of white supremacists
without being hassled by leagues
of black kids thinking they owe them an apology.

This is a good dream. Best you ever heard.

I have a dream that every hill and every valley,
every creek and every river,
every house and every street
will carry the emblem of my name,
trademarked for glory
like The Beatles dipped in glitter,
or a whore set on fire.

This is the hope of America.
Not the hope of Obama,
who said the Confederate Flag has got to go.

Remember that classic song,
when people loved the radio:
    Your loving give me a thrill,
     but loving don’t pay my bills.

Every American knows the truth.

So let it rain from the Trump Tower of Chicago.
Let it rain from the Trump Tower of Vegas.
Let it rain from the Trump Towers of New York.
Let it rain from the Trump Towers yet to be built.

When it stops raining, we’ll just make more,
this country is our dancer
shaking its ass for more,
so make it rain from the Trump Tower
replacing the White House.
Make it rain from the Trump Tower
once known as Capitol Hill.
Make it rain from the Trump Tower
of the Pentagon
and what was once the Supreme Court.

When we hear that bell tolling all across the land,
everyone will stand and sing:
    The best things in life are free,
     but you can keep em for the birds and bees.

A new Star Wars poem, written after seeing TFA:

The Nostalgia Awakens

Not a moon, a projection screen,
a bellows pumping light
back to darkened eyes,

a breathing apparatus for those
grown so tired of life
they’ve forgotten how to live.

My heart becomes a tiny fist
with a lightning bug trapped,
tickling the pink palm inside,

leaving its insect smell—
that pungent, licorice-like odor
as it squirms free and flies.

For a while I believe it,
that coincidence can propel adventure
and love can be defined,

that actions are anchors of intention
holding us, binding us together.
I want to believe it still,

but the cold luminance of artifice
waits like lingering frost on the pines,
hints of the winter to come,

memories of childhood
carried like precious fire,
one that must be lit again and again

to rekindle my mind
before the wick is burned gone
and I’ve forgotten why

my throat tastes of smoke
in this black tunnel of stone,
a darkness convincing my eyes they’re blind.

Poem for Paris

Not afraid

Kiss every bullet,
and put it in the ground.
The red roses bloom
from such quiet bodies.

Their mouths full
of moth wings,
stifled cries for freedom.
Humphrey Bogart, stick your neck out.

A player piano in a cathedral,
forgets the words
to “We Didn’t Start the Fire,”
while the beautiful friendship

of ivory and steel
fluctuates like a bridge
between here
and the scent of apricots

dabbed on Ingred Bergman’s throat
just before she sings
“La Marseillaise” and mistakes
her own heartbeat for cannon fire.

A poem inspired by Yi-Fen Chou :

Call me Yi-Fen Chewbacca (Chewie for short)

This will be a poem in translation:
growl growl grumble howl
a collection of raw, wet throat sounds
that others might recognize as music,
and some might know as a soliloquy
saying, My name must be remembered.

I carry a crossbow firing red lasers,
you’ll find my brown lips curled
into a snarl of contempt. I’ve been called
a walking carpet, a thing, a companion
for scoundrels. I made my way
from the jungle planet Kashyyyk
to this star-smeared cockpit,
keeping my wits away from my temper.
Sure, a few arms were pulled from their sockets,
but you do what’s necessary to win.

You might be tempted to bite your own hands,
you might want to yodel through a Tarzan swing.
You might think skin a luxury instead of fur,
except when hunting probe droids
across the harsh iced surface of Hoth.
But you haven’t lived inside this animal,
this forest-scented flesh, cloaked in rage like musk.
You haven’t chased down bounty hunters
with nothing to gain except a criminal’s trust.
You haven’t watched entire planets explode.

So, let me grumble, growl, snort mumble howl,
let me punch up coordinates
for speeds you’ll never reach,
the stars are still bleeding
in those constellations of mortal shapes,
just more targets
for the arrows of your dreams.
I’m hoping maybe some day you’ll learn,
a name isn’t given, it’s not something you take,
a name is something you earn.

This is not an offensive poem

This is not an offensive poem

l o v ee v o l
s t o p ss p o t s
l o v ee v o l
h u r tt r u h
l o v ee v o l

d r a ww a r d
s p i tt i p s
l o v ee v o l
w e t ss t e w
g u m ssm u g

s t u c kk c u t s
f i t ss t i f
l o v ee v o l
b u tt u b
s t r a ww a r t s

g u n ss n u g
g n a ww a n g
l o v ee v o l
r a g ee g a r
s k i nn i k s

l o v ee v o l
s t o p ss p o t s
l o v ee v o l
h u r tt r u h
l o v ee v o l

This is not an offensive poem pt. 2

( a lifetime of breath )

Asleep on the shore

No life lived to flash before his eyes,
every experience still new to his senses.

No fear of the dark held beneath the sea,
just a boy, a buoy caught in the wake

of much larger vessels,
every destination still new and unknown.

The red shirt picked out by his father,
worn like the promise of freedom,

wet, it turned the color of blood,
tiny hands curled to cradle an empty sky.

The hard-packed sand a shimmering bed
of waves that whisper and then recede,

a beach absent of his footprints.


Help me support Tupelo Press!

This month I am participating in Tupelo Press’ 30/30 challenge. I, along with eight other poets, am committing to writing a poem a day for thirty days, in an effort to promote poetry and raise money for a respected press. This is a tough challenge for any writer, to write something worth sharing every day. I hope that you will follow along, and give me your support.

For the month, my concept is to take classic poems and rework them in my own voice. This is a daunting goal by itself. One never knows how people will react to taking classic literature and meddling with sacred texts. I hope people can appreciate my concept.

As an incentive, any person who donates $10 or more and mentions my name, I will send a specially made chapbook of poems to thank them for their support. Spread the word. Tupelo Press is an awesome pillar of the poetry community, and we should help them continue their good work of promoting good work and supporting poets who deserve recognition.

Brand new poem, shared here.

Not sleeping

The children are not sleeping.
It is not nap time.
No red pillows
between their heads and the ground.

The children are not dreaming.
Crying for mothers
or fathers, to flip on the closet light,
to pull hanging clothes aside.

The children are not playing.
The sticks are just sticks,
as their hands are just hands.
No one laughs.

The children are not breathing.
The last prayer
passed their lips
like smoke that refuses to rise.

Elegy for Terry Pratchett

When DEATH comes to claim a writer
~ for Terry Pratchett

In the leaves, someone plays a fugue,
the Writer asks them to stop, it’s distracting
from a scene in which a wizard
pulls an ocean out of his throat.

But the music continues to swell,
drowning out his thoughts
until the ocean goes slipshod,
spilling off the page,

and Death appears saying, “SEE,
The Writer laughs, “Look at this water,
it’s ruining my notebooks,

the memoirs of my life reduced
to soggy wafers of smeared ink!
How funny, I’m drowning in words.”
The ocean spews forth in waves,

his home now a gulf
riddled with furniture and floating books,
swollen like fish in the sun. He smiles
and grabs a couch cushion.


“I’ve done it then, I’ve found the secret
to eternal life. But why does it feel
like the opposite? And where is my hat?”
Water pours from the windows

like faucets or exploding eyes,
the lights get wet and flicker and fade,
soon the waters grow still, still rising,
pushing the Writer and Death

within inches of the ceiling,
pulled by an unnameable tide.
The Writer says, “I just thought,
I would have more time.”

But he hesitates, arms floundering

in the deep darkness, splashing.
Until his hand happens across
something familiar and folded,
drifting in the current like a forgotten wish.

The characters that have gathered
let go of the breath they were holding.
He pulls the dripping hat onto his head
and says, “Okay, I’m ready.”




A poem for Michael Moore:


It takes bravery to badmouth the dead,
the ghosts are not reloading their weapons.

It takes bravery to hoist that mic high,
clearing the frame of the shot.

The camera lens cannot tell a lie
like a video editor, splicing together a script.

It’s a sniper scope. Aimed, it focuses,
on targets unaware of the crosshairs.

When the trigger is pulled he’s far away,
in a darkened room that smells of sex.

The filmmaker sleeps, a food-drunk bear
with no blood on his giant paws,

for underdogs, his bravery is popcorn butter
wiped onto a wrinkled tuxedo shirt.

Jay Sizemore