Debate What?

By Stephen Mead                                                             

 

It’s some sort of transparent mustard gas

that orifice in his face issues like the spout of a balloon

letting loose around rooms, TV studios, rallies,

a sort of Hindenburg of bile exploding over so many

again and again upon re-runs of touch-downs.

Powder keg, the radioactive invisible dust fills clues

made obvious by the sponged on pancake tan

blotched over bloating crinkles & sifting into hair

straw stiff, nacreous, the stylist spends hours upon

to hide the baldness as his vanity demands.

Oh average Joe, how your daily struggle’s been confronting

this miasmic mess whose rumored heart has no compass

for morals and whose brain tweets bullying hate endlessly

amplified as a dung beetle with a megaphone.

No, wait, that insect has more natural benevolent use

when no good has come from his lungs swelling

in a wheeze bag throat voicing lies like epitaphs

over whose bones he’d crush to tap the marrow from

obese with morbid blood lust.  What crust to elect that

& think snowflakes have no right to defend themselves masked

against the pestilence he’s opened the floodgates for

to blame anyone , anything else while his enabling cult too

is a pandemic lapping this laced Kool-Aid up

as if there’s enough acid in their veins to combat

Corona crowns microscopic.

Oh, you other Joe, aspiring Presidential to save us

from this mess, it is not safe for you to go in either

where his familial administrative republic fortress is shaking,

leaning this way, that, with more schemes up the sleeve

to justify either view their base may form

from the political swamp that is killing everything

& knowingly, making use of the carnage should it touch

even them, not safe, not sound either, foolish and mortal,

as the true humans in humanity grieve dust to dust.