Numb. 1718 La Commedia è finita?

Numb. 1536 Say Goodnight, Gracie

Numb. 1283 DISINAUGURATION/The End Of Creation: There WILL Be Trumpettes

Donald’s your average
ethno-cultural savage,
an exemplar of 
Dunning-Kruger.
Not so much a fascist,
his present and past is
one long unraveling fubar.
He made a small fortune.
(Out of a large one,
when you account for inflation.)
We presume that’s his reason,
this beast for no season,
for thrusting himself
on world and nation.
There is no escape
from the harm he’ll do.
No point pretending,
to keep smiling through.
There will be no return from 
the course he will run.
So stick a fork in it.
It’s over. We’re done.

                

Numb. 1180 Darn Old Redux or Ass Id Reflux

It does not matter Darn Old is senile,

that he’s lost his hold on reality,

when we consider the greater picture —

total depraved, immorality.

With his reascension the country is shot,

and we’ll need an escape from our misery.

This non-medical Mengele, his brain gone to pot,

will tailor a swift end to history.

This deviant being to human norm, 

this Devil’s disciple blowing his horn,

this Chicxulub Meteor in fleshy form,

makes me despair I ever was born.

Numb. 1176 Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da

The mail in Japan was always delivered.

Except in Hiroshima after the bomb.

Curious, isn’t it, how life persists,

forever insisting on going on?

1948: I was five, I recall.

A boy, more mature,

on a bike — maybe 12 —

on 76th Street just off 11th,

stamped an ant hill

just for the thrill of it.

I sharpened a Popsicle stick

on the sidewalk and

stabbed a hole in bike's front tire.

Scrambling ants reconstructed their hill.

The tire was mended. My Mom paid the bill.

Whatever happens, life will persist.

Until and unless the meteor hits.

Or Trump is elected and world goes to bits.