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Poem
Goodnight to our Rome with all your garrisons
and your streets that have become
as loveless as empty barracks.
For you I will never weep.
After all,
your Senators
Who made the deals
To keep the last
Last
And the first bored
and lost in ennui,
govern the burning ruins
of the human city which evicted the cobbler
and used the electorate as a weapon
With unforgiving recoil
Which guarantees 
that
the bottom will stay at the bottom
and dance to the music of the
midnight carousel.
2
Now that the middleman has been cast 
To the prairie grass
With his own middle cut away
His fate was decided over lunch
The legal apparatus has fallen from its hinge 
Leaving only the greatest felony
Unnamed.
And who are our neighbors 
When we’re sentenced to the 
Four year winter hotel?
Will they be the nameless ghosts
Evicted from their bodies by those
Who are afforded the right to escape the tombs
With kept wives in cheap furs
And Upper eastside penthouses. 
And in all those apartments
All the beautiful people
Wash down oxycodone with fine wine
While bitching about the junkie below.
“Send the cops to clean up the drug
Problem,” they cry.
“All addictions should come with a ‘scrip.”
  
It takes a truly trained country
with few alternatives
to put a knife to its own throat
or hand it over 
to an orange buffoon
with a poor hair cut
in a loveless room.
He always
 lines up his bets
on what con will turn the American heart
into just another dead 
theater
where it was all the show of shows.
And when the decision is made
The worst one is chosen.
The decision has certainly been made.
For what other country 
Choses a landlord so crooked
All self-respecting cons
Walk past him
Never stopping at all
For fear he will pick their pockets clean
For he is the biggest con of all,
Who now has to do a sometimes honest man’s job.
Those he loved the least
Ignored all the papers
Who for once
Didn’t celebrate
The game of chance
But cried out
With the urgency of a siren 
During an air raid
to pick the other.
While he spoke as one of the mob
His heart was that of a landlord
Looking to evict
All his useful idiots 
From their lots.
For now he can expect nothing in the end
But to stand on the stairs
Or escalator 
When all your Senators approach
smiling
 with drawn knives. 
“Et tu Sessions?”
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