Gris-Gris, an online journal of literature, culture & the arts

Trump

by John Krumberger

And for your crimes against the heart of humanity
you are sentenced by the Heavenly Court
to an incarnation in Racine, Wisconsin,
only this time your father will not be a mogul
but rather a man child unsheltered by those streets.
And you shall wonder the alleys between Franklin
and Center, lowering your eyes before the police.
And your anger will not be rewarded.
And you will cast far and wide for your daily bread,
cleaning the balky toilets at old Dana Hall
where George Wallace spoke in 1972,
assuring his audience that politicians in Washington
carried only a peanut butter sandwich in their fancy
brief cases, and that they were pussy-footing on busing
and pussy-footing on the economy, while the gathered
crowd howled like a pack of excited dogs,
for he was a demagogue of the first rate,
more skilled than yourself, and in a photograph
from the Journal Times one sees the leering face
of Arthur Bremer who was there stalking his prey, waiting
with the bullet that would shatter Mr. Wallace’s’ s spine
later that month, blessing and purifying him
with unending pain until slowly he became a human being
and needed finally to meet with the ministers of Montgomery
to apologize before he died. All of this is written.
Our days are like the changing grass. Nevertheless
the mercy of this court demands that it show no mercy
that is not proportionate with the just and the right.
Therefore you are to be cursed with servitude, afflicted
with want, a hungry ghost, cold and without comfort,
until a time deemed suitable for your release.