A Golden Shower For Donald Trump
In my bizarre phantasmagoria, I watch the piss steam rise and sting his eyes, his eye brows smoothed by the smothered wetness that causes his tears to well. He is gasping, choking, paralyzed as it splashes against his teeth. His mouth is open. He cannot make a sound. He cannot form words. He swallows for air, but gargles the bitter salts and oils. I feel dead. Without joy or satisfaction, but I cannot stop urinating on a man who called for bloodletting and the death of people like me — people like all of us — people whose blood bears the life and spirit Trump denies, the spirit that he labels “troublesome,” that he says deserves being “roughed up.” Said by him with the same ease as the piss of my confusing dream, this series of flowing sensations which were once my crystal stairs.
The pillars of deepest aspirations and ideas are shaking an ideal of hope abiding the stairs. I have been provoked to abandon hope. Now I stand over Trump with my scalding, hot pee stinging his eyes, smoothing his brow, pooling under him and filling his mouth, congealing in his hollow soul as evil laughs and my urine, without relief, flows down into his hell.
The evil in Trump makes me recoil from the goodness within myself. I am pulled by the darkest of temptations to abandon my most deeply sought passions: My mission of restoring and deepening a historical humanity for a new generation, abandoned. The encounter with his evil tells me how close the tragedy of nameless destruction lay underneath our breathing and distractions. As slavery’s chains broke, I want to break these new chains, entangling me in the blind rage of pure evil, evil cloaked as a package of beautiful, horrible lies that appeal and trigger a cosmopolitan hate.
By my rage and its back splash, I am isolated from the imperatives of a just society. Hate has broken the connection. It becomes evil when both sides engage its pull.
I am in danger of being pulled into the infernal darkness. By a clown whose logic is no longer funny. I know God warns the unruly, but in a strange parallax, I have seamlessly dissembled without heart or courage into a landscape that is the long back meadow for the looking glass tunnel that overwhelmed Alice–-and seeks to overwhelms me — in and out--absent caution of its impending doom! It calls me to follow the dreams; to lay down at the end of the looking glass. To be a blind mule at the Red Queen’s tea.
Instead, I stop and go to the bathroom.