Lonely Hearts Chapel

a text about the following poem, from my (allegedly) fully matured brain

Covfefe

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like a heartbeat, he’s

commanding me again, the singing

prophet in my window, which is truly

a guidepost from god, placed here by me

to remind myself of what’s really important:

caressing the things that gleam, and holding them

with a religious-fury tightness, flexing around the shining

stuff, for extra strength to heave the garbage-mountains and

hurl them over there, where they belong, with all the ugly people

I hope I never meet, who must be disposed-of, somehow, in

order to clear the way for the holy-perfect ones, who have

faith in me, who care about getting into heaven, and

would sell their souls just to touch me, even though

they still wouldn’t be able to afford it; yes, THOSE

are the ones who can stay: only the choicest, most

“high-quality” stock, whose lives are made great

again by talking about how huge, powerful, and

hilarious I am, all while marching in front of me

—as I guide them—toward the multiphasal

starburst future, where they can think and

feel everything and nothing in the same

moment, and never really be

guilty of anything.

Love always,

your Mister