Trump Drives On Deep Into Twitter
for Richard Brautigan
(Watermelon 2) (of a 12 Watermelon poem)
March again?, 2019
it’s such a bronze medal-fucked year
already
Everything worth winning stuff
keeps getting kicked in the truth,
its face ground into the gravel by
random gangs of rowdy assholes with Budweiser breath
puffed up full of New Nazis propaganda
and the idea of Mar-a-Largo
playing poker with their toes
while they can
The most horrible shit in this world is tough to defeat
It’s hard enough trying to beat the horrible shit
that can’t even beat the most horrible shit that
always wins everything (#2nd place)
and still, we hang in there
(on a wet rope made of memories and lost coats)
running our laps at 2 in the morning
even though everything worth anything these days
keeps consistently coming
in third place
Love loses hard
to Hustler reading Bible smokers in red baseball caps
and a Trump Tower sized Kaiju, beast-sweat pouring
from its own crotch placed in the middle of its forehead,
A gigantus creep created
by the hate and radioactive gullibility
of everyone who laughs while thinking a snowball
trumps climate change science
and follow the president on Twitter
religiously, crotch itched,
believing it all
a Noah’s ark
filled with one pair
of every possible type
of delusion
Darwin’s drinking scotch
in his grave right now
picking at worms while documenting the downfall
and inevitable evolution
of the human soul
If Brautigan was here right now
I’d catch him up on the current state
of the Marvel Cinematic Universe
and Absurdism
We’d watch Captain America: Civil War
and finish the bottle
while writing tight, heartfelt letters
to our individual Helens and Congress
while on some beach
somewhere in California
a turtle is talking to a sea shell
about that one lost day in the 90’s
when it almost met Luke Perry
It was gold
Multiverse Johnson 