Inaugural poem for Donald J. Trump

For the America that could have been
~inaugural poem for Donald J. Trump

When I piss in the shower,
I piss for America,
for a world without water
and a body nearly too tired to stand.

Somewhere an entire city boils,
spooning their showers
from a hissing toilet tank.

When I jerk off at work,
I jerk off for America,
watching my semen like hot snot
slide its way into the mouth
of a white porcelain sink.

This is true happiness,
job security like a throbbing hard-on
begging to be stroked
while the homeless shoplift
bottles of mouthwash
to chug themselves into the hospital.

I order my cheeseburger medium well.
I order my cheeseburger for America,
an America of FDA-approved cancer,
and reality TV politicians,
movie star presidents,
where you can add “gate” to the end of anything.

I welcome my labored breath,
the coming numbness
of hemispherical lightning,
being fed through a tube.

I welcome the odor of the hoarders
and their living room of pungent chaotic comforts
that will become my life of isolationism
and hermit crab-like skittishness.

I will become a nicotine patch.
I will become my favorite NFL logo.
I will become the half-eaten doughnut
left in the box at the AA meeting.
I will become the opposite of content,
wrapped in a trauma blanket,
rustling like a pile of leaves
with something hidden underneath.

America, when I shriek, I shriek for thee.

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.