Recipe: Trump Roast

you may have seen this recipe listed elsewhere as: 

Recipe for Disaster

rest assured this is the same recipe dating back to the earliest days of 

huey p long, george wallace and richard nixon

Trump Roast

Take a fresh young baby: must be an all white male

Remove hair and place in the lap of luxury, smother in fragrant doting parents,

rub in all the best schools money can buy and finally add a copious amount of fresh green cash.

Next: glaze baby with no consequences for bad behavior. This step is important!

If you fail to glaze constantly, it will be too tender and sprout a conscience.

This will create a soft baby and it will be too flaccid. We are aiming for a hard crunchy

unfeeling Trump Roast.

Now take your bouquet of bitter herbs and fill all the cavities. Stuff it well into the crevices.

The bitter herbs will impart the pinched disdainful look in the appearance of your roast that will enhance your final presentation.

Place your baby roast on a bed of young buxom blondes. Use only surgically enhanced females as this is the secret to the Trump Roast: The Silicone and fake smiles will add that secret sauce we all crave and keep the baby cozy and secure as we place it in the oven.

This baby roast must be baked at a very low temperature; as it cant stand any heat.

Too much heat or pressure will cause the baby to explode. This is very dangerous and anyone nearby can be hurt from the toxic outgassing and chunks of melting silicone.

Once the baby has reached an internal temperature of No Patience and you have checked for 

an Absence of Soul, take your baby out of the oven and place on a serving tray covered in:

chopped Failed businesses

Plenty of broken promises

A sprinkling of dishonesty 

And dusted with the essence of cold hard ambition. 

You are now ready to serve your Trump Roast. This dish is best served to angry young white men and aimless cranky old people. They will especially like all the low vocabulary white meat that is the hallmark of this great American Dish. Bon Appetit! And don't forget to serve with a wine of your choosing. We like the Blanc de Blanc  ( cant get more white than that) by Trump Wines. Because the delicious flavor of  branding is everything!

Gothica

I bought this house in 1958
straight outa the army
with a VA loan

It's all vintage
from the linoleum
the single pane windows
original tar and gravel roof

You people with your
double pane windows
and fancy heating systems

Wear layers I tell ya, layers
why I can remember when...
Shhhhhh she said

As she laid her velvet gin soaked
fingers across his chapped lips
Shhhhhh she said

As she led his hollowed body
down the dark sweaty hallway
Shhhhh she said

As she held his face up to the mirror
illumined with the only working
light bulb in the house

Shhhhh she said;
The light scalded his sallow face
one tear fell from his squinty eyes
then the mirror quietly cracked in two

Day Light Savings

cows just don’t get it
bellowing at the milking house door
and in the farm house
the dog cocks its head at its empty bowl
and then at the bedroom door
back and forth
as if that was the secret code
which would fill its bowl with kibbles
on the radio talk-show
time is exhausted trying to determine
if daylight really needed to be saved

Houdini in Chains

Houdini had been born in a time
when belief in magic was strong and common place
like water to wine
and the mystery of electricity

Handsome and devilishly deft in the ways of human nature
he sought not so much as to trick, as to astound
subtle manipulator, but not enough strength
to escape the binds
of wife and mother

Both laid claims to his body and soul
Mother by birth               Wife by fire
neither one cared to untangle the chains
of female bondage
encircling his heart and mind
with duty and desire

Houdini escaped the obvious magician props:
Those ropes never held
These chains are child's play
The Chinese Water Torture; a gift of life

His mother preceded him in death
but he never escaped his wife
who continued to call his name
and summon his body
until she too reached eternity

Desire always wins out in the end
But Mama got there first

The Tourist Train

my thoughts are like a tourist train
slowly moving out of dark forest
towards the limitless ocean
the cars filled with beings
who don’t live here, just visiting
happy children waving
parents cautiously smiling
grandparents tense,
they know where this ends
I sit and watch
suppressing the desire to climb on

New Years Walk

He has a sure and steady stride
like one I used to Love

More like a lope really
a slow giddy-up kind of walk
unburdened by sickness
or frailty
a Knowing is his gait
and a place of purpose to go to

Its all purpose;
the dark blue jeans
the camouflage jacket
the mirrored sun glasses

He is moving through this parking lot
like he owns it

My gaze lingers too long
He turns around to see me
I dont return his look
instead I stare at the blue blue sky

Now

What can be said of this moment?

A soft coverlet pulled back

Gauze curtains riffling beside an open window

A single white chicken standing in the morning mist

A herd of spotted cows, heads turned as one
watching the milk truck on its way out
to the road

and let us not forget
forget
forgotten

I can remember

I can remember when there seemed to be an order to things

If I did this, then this would happen
I I did not do this, then this would not happen

Order has Mutated
Order was a Joke
Order is no More

Life is happening in crinkly bits
that make no sense
My soul has flown the coop
and left me bereft for my self

Realizing there are no mistakes,
only a jury rigged semblance of life ahead
The royal We plods on

Look!
My coffee is getting cold
time to hoist high my wind ripped sails
and get on with todays mighty living

Murmuration

I take a breath of the cool air
let it out to join the ocean of  molecules
that surround this day.
My thoughts rise up like
birds up from the weeds
thousands of birds rise and
turn as one
a great black whale of the sky
which turns and swallows itself
then up and over
a giant mushroom cloud
the birds turn as one to form
a question mark before
settling back into the weeds

Lighten the Load

Taking an inventory: what to get rid of?
Black faux seal skin coat from Mother, long in her grave
Black lace scarf now in tatters that she once wore to church
Hair from dead husband, cut from his large lusty pony tail
Nails used to hang me from the cross
Quilt made from petrified tears
Notebook containing dreams from 1982
Notebook containing dreams from 1990
Photos of people now long gone and forgotten
Skull of tiny seabird found on the shore
Mildewed bible with mouse nibbled corners
Pressed flowers from first and only prom date
Rubber band ball
Love letter from first abusive boyfriend
Love letter from first non abusive boyfriend
Letter from Father where he says he loves me and I should be a good girl
Tiny holographic eyeball that stares at me from a silver frame
Wanting none of these things, they are put in a box
and moved
yet again to my new home

Ballast

The boat chugged slowly
around the headland
cutting through choppy waves
on its way to the harbor
the customary seagulls
sat on the cliffs and watched
as if waiting for some dreaded event
the boat waddled low in the water
it would not clear the bar
the sailors were throwing
heavy sisal bags over the side
ballast to lighten the load
whatever it was the gulls just hissed

Faith

For my Friend Brian

Faith is the Ballast
Some use Water
Others use Dragonwood

Caricature of Lola Montez's departure for America

Rondo in F

The operator sits down
a piano becomes a time machine
she presses the keys
and a message
from the eighteenth century
enters the room

although buried in an unmarked grave
“Wolfie” as he was affectionately called
etched out his thoughts
into the wall of time

sitting here, in this room
listening to that message sent
over two hundred years ago
I write these words on electric paper
a message folded and stuffed
into a crevice in that same wall

Percussion

She is the Percussion

tick tock

click clack

jingle jangle

Come to rattle yer cage

Ha Ha no one is safe

Kakoosh kakoosh

swish swish

peasoup peasoup peasoup

Come to rattle yer cage

The Apron

I asked Mr. Google
if he knew her
if he remembered her
he shrugged
I’m sorry he said
maybe if she had
done something important
or she was the mother of
someone important
then I think there would
be a line around here somewhere

turning away I wanted to say
I remember her
the smell of soap and cooking
imbedded deep in her apron
as I grabbed on
to steady my feet