Kubla Don


Kubla Don

Or, a vision of a nightmare. A fragment.



In Florida did Kubla Don

A bigly pleasure-dome decree:

Where Pence, his pasty minion, ran

Through briefings pleasureless to man

Which Donald tried to flee.

So twice five hours of boring talk

Of walls, of Muslims (whom he’ll block);

And there were cameras bright with glamorous flash,

Which captured many a headline-grabbing scene;

And here were members ancient, rich, and brash,

Plebeian protocols, they’d contravene.


But oh! those green romantic fairways which slanted

Down past the Secret Service undercover!

A moneyed place! as high-class and enchanted

As e’er beneath a skinhead moon was haunted

By Bannon screaming for his demon lover!

And from this fairway, with ceaseless flashbulbs snapping,

As if this earth in fast bright lights was clapping,

A fuzzy trade-deal momently was struck:

A deal that lets free markets run amok.

Huge headlines tweeted like Beyonce’s bump,

(But even that could hardly outdo Trump),

Perverted Donald’s Wharton mind, unclever,

So that he had no context whatsoever,

Despite the twice five hours’ meeting,

With Pence and Flynn, that monumental man,

About the state affairs of new Japan

(An error Donald keeps repeating).

And ‘mid this daydream Donald heard from far

Korean missiles prophesying war!

The dinner at the dome of pleasure

Was rudely interrupted (Sad!)

But Donald, a great man of leisure,

Leaned toward the cameras and was glad.

It was a miracle of rare conceit,

A President besieged and in his seat!


A woman with a microphone

In a pressroom all alone:

To see her there, my heart was thrilled,

And with her microphone she grilled,

Asking of Mar-a-Lago.

Could I recall verbatim

Her symphony of shade,

‘Twould pose for Trump an ultimatum,

That with mockey persuade

Him to forget his Palm Beach lair,

That tacky place! that den of vice!

And all his trade deals should be fair

Or else we’ll cry, Beware! Beware!

His greedy eyes, his floating hair!

We’ll fix it so there’ll be a price

To sign those bills that help his bros;

We’ll shout it ‘til the whole world knows,

That he’s a fool in Paradise.


[Note: Please go here to read “Kubla Khan” by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.]

The Ballad of Sir Michael Pence


The Ballad of Sir Michael Pence


I.  The Summoning

The Donald sits in New York town

Stroking his blood-red tie,

“Fuck, who will be my patsy Veep,

To run things on the sly?”


So up and spoke blonde Kellyanne,

Consulting Breitbart polls,

“That Pence creep might be just the guy;

They’ve lobbied out his soul.”


The Donald drafts an e-mail bold,

He makes his henchmen write,

And sends it to that chalky Pence,

The Indiana Knight.


“M-A-G-A! M-A-G-A!”

(He writes in mostly CAPS.)

“My job is to M-A-G-A,

While you do stuff with maps!”


The first line that Mike Pence did read,

So cold it made his skin;

The next line that Mike Pence did read,

It made him seem to grin.


“Who is this orange demon lord,

Who wants an imp like me

To serve my fetish God (Amen),

Who cares where people pee?


“Be it L, be it G, be it B, be it T, be it Q,

We must not let them win;

‘Ungodly’ acts should stay taboo,

And poverty’s a sin.”


He crossed himself and stroked his cross,

And told his Grindr friends

That he’d be on the campaign trail,

Their fun would have to end.


II.  The Veep

“M-A-G-A! M-A-G-A!”

The Donald liked to shout.

“Sir, yes, that’s good, but if I could,”

Mike Pence would test his clout.


“I saw Al Franken spitting mad,

The real facts in his hand;

And Betsy, she might lose the vote,

I fear we’re undermanned.”


The Donald then he stopped his roar,

Looked up from CNN,

And said, “Fuck, Pence! You know I can’t

Be made a fool—again!”


The backroom deals, donations made,

It was a busy week;

And cub reporters would not quit,

Till Spicer looked red-cheeked.


“Go fetch Warren, Sanders, Kaine,”

Pale Pence he told his staff.

“Once they see all that donor cash,

They won’t know wheat from chaff.”


They fetched McCain, Portman, Paul,

Another (Cruz) declined,

And cunning Pence coerced those goons

To toe the party line.


Oh loath, oh loath, the Senate was

To cause The Donald ire;

But Presidents who can be bought,

Are nothing to admire.


And many were the Senate votes,

That died in those back rooms;

And many took unnumbered checks,

Campaigning must resume.


Oh long, oh long will mothers sit

With children late at night

Before they see the state allot

Resources to their fight.


And long, oh long may children sit,

With old books in their hands,

A-waiting for this shit to end,

For us to take a stand.


The swamp, the swamp in Washington,

Is fifty fathoms deep;

And there our Veep Mike Pence will stand,

With schoolkids ‘neath his feet.


[Note: Please go here to read “Sir Patrick Spens,” a British ballad.]

Make Gatsby Great Again


Make Gatsby Great Again


In my younger and more comfortable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been telling so many people, so many people, ever since.

“Whenever you feel like criticizing any one,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t worked as tremendously hard as you have. Okay?”

He didn’t say any more, but afterward, he gave me a small loan, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that, let me tell you. In consequence, I pass the most judgments—and I have the best judgments of anyone—which is a habit that the liberal media hate, by the way. But they’re lightweight people, most of them, lightweight people. They’re losers, and when they see winners—especially big-league winners like me—they say very, very bad—totally wrong—things about me because they’re afraid of the truth. And look, two years ago, when we started this beautiful campaign, they viciously accused me of being a “politician,” because I was talking about what a disaster these last eight years have been. Most of the things I was saying were so obvious—and you people know it—so obvious that the media elites at CNN had to run fake news stories about me and meanwhile they’re just letting the radical Islamic terrorists off the hook. Terrible. Make no mistake, folks: passing judgments is a matter of national security. Trust me, they’ll miss a terrorist attack if they forget that, as my father so rightly said, and I always say when the reporters ask me (they say they hate me, but they won’t leave me alone, you should see it), our sense of fundamental decencies is under attack by illegals who want to take away this country.

And, this is what I call tolerance, folks, real tolerance, I’m not just talking about illegals. Bad conduct may be happening because of our own citizens—Americans, if you can believe it, badmouthing what we’re trying to do here—and after a certain point of really bad behavior, I don’t care if they’re Democrats, Republicans, millennials, cab drivers, or whatever. Get. Them. Out. When I came back to Mar-a-Lago last night, the press—the very unfair New York Times and others that nobody reads—were asking me about what some other very wealthy people like Mark Cuban and Mayor Bloomberg and Mark Zuckerberg have been saying about my morality, whatever that means; I won’t tell you what I wanted to say—not even a rag like The New York Times would print it, believe me. Only Gatsby, there’s a good, strong name Gatsby (and very American too), would be excepted from my reaction. And I’ll tell you why: Gatsby represents everything this country is good for. What a personality, a great, great personality. And some people say he’s got the looks too, but I’ll leave that for the ladies to decide, okay? This man—a dear, dear friend (and has been for many years)—has an extraordinary gift for deals, a readiness like you’ve never seen—although I, to be honest, have it too. He’s like one of those machines that predict earthquakes, except with deals. Amazing, talented, amazing man. No—Gatsby, despite what the liberal media says, is so, so great, the greatest; it’s the media—that preys on honest, (and they’ll get mad at me for saying this) usually very wealthy, successful citizens—that deserves to be closed out of our democracy. Not a media ban, not a ban. Temporary. Call it whatever you want.

[Note: Please buy F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby from your local independent bookstore.]

When I Heard the Learn’d Geographer


When I Heard the Learn’d Geographer


When I heard the learn’d geographer,

When his facts, his figures, were aped by fake news reporters,

When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to prove, support, and settle them,

When I sneering heard the geographer where he lectured on “climate change” for the liberal elites,

How bad, unbelievable, I harangued the T.V.,

Till smirking and drifting out I saunter’d off by myself,

In a typical winner’s way, and from time to time,

Look’d down in perfect smugness at my phone.


[Note: Please go here to read Walt Whitman’s “When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer”]

The New, Very Classy Colossus


The New, Very Classy Colossus


Not like that green disaster made in France,

Which left us high and dry, folks, believe me;

Here on high-end riverside property,

A classy girl will pose, whose sexy stance

Is pure Victoria’s Secret. Romance

Sells, people. Her name is Miss Liberty,

And I will say (and this is not PC)

That her tremendous chest is worth a glance.

“Make America Great Again!” she cries

With pouting lips. “Spare me your tired, your poor,

They’re all losers (and some probably spies),

They’re awful criminals, of that I’m sure.

Give these, the foreign, some forceful goodbyes,

And let the doormen guard our golden door!”


[Note: Please go here to read Emma Lazarus’s “The New Colossus”]