ORANGE JESUS APENECK SWEENEY BLAH BLAH BLAH WASTED LAND
	Land has fractured; so has mind. We only see broken pieces: The Orange Jesus      Apeneck Sweeney spreads his knees      Letting his arms hang down to laugh,      The zebra stripes along his jaw      Swelling to maculate giraffe....      —TS Eliot The Orange Jesus returns from the court-house restroom stall, smears fecal matter on the wall, then scrawls: “Willis’s fanny is big and black and round—not my type!” He chortles, burps, farts, then growls: "NOT MY TYPE AT ALL”. Convicted of 34 felony counts, he calls the system "rigged" and says we live in a fascist state; that is, one not of his own devising. Convicted of 34 felony counts, he blames the judge, the judge's daughter, and the justice system. Convicted of 34 felony counts, it never occurs to the Orange Jesus to look inward to the source of his woes: a deeply flawed personality. He asks his acolytes to vote for a rapist and a felon for president who could not get a job at Walmart. He asks his acolytes to vote for a commander-in-chief who could not serve in the military, let alone own a gun. And he asks his acolytes to vote for someone you would not allow your daughter to ride alone with in the elevator. He's as bonkers as a bowling ball that thinks it's a snake. Elect an evil spirit as president and you invite the four horsemen of the apocalypse. Yes, they are still out there waiting! You invite corruption, bigotry, vice, and ill fortune. The swamp he talks of draining becomes first a lake, then a sea, then the ocean into which the land slowly sinks. He's not my type and shouldn't be yours either, says the lark winging and singing in the meadow; he’ll clip your wings, put you in a cage, take your freedom away. He’s as unclean as an old rag used to wipe a donkey’s ass, his. Flush the Orange Turd down the drain—you won't miss him! Then take a long, sobering walk in the country. Feel how it feels to be sane again. No hoaxes, no witch-hunts, no alternative facts—only the plain-truth reality of that which eyes can see, ears can hear, and fingers can feel. Poetry Is Is poetry poetry, or is poetry therapy? Is therapy therapy, or is therapy poetry?— In a warm, accepting environment, of course. In all instances, no exceptions! Sit up, mother fucker, and be nice! It's your turn to read, Rob! Is poetry radical, words on fire? Or is it gags written for the comedy hour? Is it "Hey, dude, what the fuck! Oh my god, cooler than cool. Just don't steel the mic, Mick!” Is it Madrigal Mary with pierce nipples and spiked tongue ready to cum? Is it spaghetti thrown at the restaurant wall by President X Y Xenophobic Zebra stripes? Around the rugged rocks the ragged rascal ... Is it vino derramado y vomito and little else, pobrecito? Is it a prissy little potpourri of words plucked to win a contest by some would-be Sylvia Plath? Is poetry politics at its saucy Worcestershire worst? Does it ignore all tradition, disdaining even its own? Are cummings & Eliot old-hat pensioner poets passé? Is it is it? Or is it isn't it? Why am I so dizzy, Gillespie? Why am I I, and why do I now so want to die? Have I already? The tide rolls in, threatens to drag me out to sea. Hear me singing, see the seagul sinking. Can I be someone else next time? Someone exciting, witty, and fun? Or am I stuck having to think each word aloud and nail it in place like a carpenter building a house; then have it all fall down? This isn't much fun. Let's stop right here. I fear it won't get any better. Good Luck, Bad* Live life on the edge and you experience acutely the luck factor. Oh, yeah! Both good and bad, but probably more the latter. First little why-me? i had been assaulted by yes-you! thugs and robbed of his money. Then, when why me? left the country, why me? was denied "leave" to return. Don't come back loser-boozer! You're not welcome welkin! According to a report by the border-force bouncers that why-me? i was not permitted to see, why me? had "overstayed"; why me? was attempting to live in said precious country, make the precious place his home away from home, whatever that meant, the border bouncers said; though why me? had not found it very livable at gouging hotel prices and few amenities like heat or refrigeration. why me?'s life became Kafka's worst nightmare. why me? was charged with something but not told what. In fact a corrupt database had corrupted a report had corrupted ... Depression set in. why me? couldn't handle a badder-than-bad-bladder dose of the luck factor turned mad-dog-growling against him. But maybe, just maybe ... why me? was still clinging to the fragile notion of maybe this, maybe that. Life on the edge was different. The luck factor plays a stronger role than in the life of the daily-grind hello-and-goodbye how's-yours? same-ol' routine. Then there's the world, or what we call the world, and that barrage of bad news coming straight at your face: Gaza Rafah Ukraine Zaporizhzhia ... all day and every like a psycho-vertigo-reflux horror show. It's like an extra dose man of bad luck to break your-our-anyone's  spirit and put you down downer downest. Day to day, moment to moment. Maybe now was the time to exit never-was-a-good-idea-Boris Brexit; hey, take the next offramp from nowhere to anywhere is better than her here now or him never ever; was it your queue? why me? had the keys to life's prison in a left-over bottle prescription; just open the throttle, pedal to metal. Sterling had done it in the cool grey city of love's other side; others too. Why not why me?? Stop the action, exit stage right. No more fretting, no more sweating. The show was over. Punkt! Bury the dead: why-me? i and yes-you! too. Then a tall cool one in the shade of all shades. Morpheus Memoirs, the Toke of all Tokes. Then maybe a better script! Who's writing this shit anyway? It's all a hella downer! A recipe for clam chowder reads betta. Moguls Met, Earth Wept Moguls met for a week to discuss reduction of fossil-fuel emissions. By the end of the week they increased them. "Blah Blah Blah", says Greta, the young woman of courage and conviction. "Drill, drill, drill", says the Orange Jesus, a felon with 34 convictions. Drain the swamp. His. * See Notes On Corrupt  Database
	by Louis Martin