Proclamations for Mr. President

 Mr. President, you Fascist!

The way Ginsberg put it:

You are going to grow old. 

That murky water lining the eyes that makes the face droop and combine into one feature. 

Hooked up to beeping machines in hospitals, 

IV arm, veins filling and pulsing. 

If you look hard enough it can be beautiful, 

but Big Man you are not.

Nurses around you like pity: 

like “yes Mr. President”

like “yes Great Perverted Obstructor.” 

like “yes we will undress you and let you shit and 

redress you for there is nothing left of you but shit.” 

Billions of dollars in debt, 

billions of dollars in your pocket, 

billions of citizens sick from the hungry over fed Soldiers of Pollution,

billions of immigrants whipped for their race.

Yes, Big Man, this is where you have ended up: 

gray and unable to whistle through 

the wrinkles of your lips. You’re 

still dependent after the bombs, 

the homes stolen, the tax relief for your fellow wealthy suitors, and 

the warm, rich lighting of your foyer. 

I wonder what you make of harsh hospital lighting

—how white and pale you have been made. 

The Great Skeleton with clacking knees that shake in the night.

 Nightmares are spiteful things, aren’t they?

This is what you have to become, Mr. President, 

whether you are rich or poor or fucking or asleep. 

Whether you sucked Bill’s dick, 

whether you ride the Lolita Express into heaven or hell.

Rotten, molding moles on your cheeks tell the tale of the elderly heart 

where you have grown and withered 

and will decay like all else. You will decay 

alongside the ones you shot the ones you 

taxed the ones you devoured. 

Mr. President, you are nothing but a stone beside Hitler in the history books. 

Oh fascist, you will die too.