The world is crazy enough
& we are now afraid of death,
of looking & sounding stupid,
while our unmasked muses
are now on vacation,
whooping it up,
getting high & drinking Caipirinhas
in South America,
while our pens & minds
stay sober, dry of imagination
& finding little hopeful inspiration—
as we swig
Pepto Bismol from tiny, plastic cups,
keeping last night’s dinner down
since today’s news is barely digestible.
Our angels are gone;
the devils are now sick—
I don’t remember you saying anything nice,
I thought when the weirdness began,
when Cheeto got ill
& the conspiracies took shape
(instant karma has got him,
warned the departed great John)
he still went out & infected
many more crowds who
hang on his twisted words & gestures
unashamedly unmasked,
without a care,
searching for any adoration.
They need to know I’m all right,
he probably reasoned, high
on extra oxygen and/or steroids,
but the infection continues to spread,
in super religious communities,
where brown & black people
gather and retain contact,
& the higher-up politicians
doing the Prez’s bidding.
I need to return to the White House,
he pressured his medical crew,
only thinking of his own image—
tarnished again by the press,
not because
OF HIS OWN STUPIDITY
No wonder I can’t write
anything substantial
while this shit is going on….