Nothing is real until Trump announces it.
The sky is not the blue you think you see.
The autumn wind? The frost? The barren tree
rattling against the eaves? You must admit
they are not there; their being’s counterfeit,
formless as the void before reality
breasted the darkness with one Let-There-Be.
Well, LMFAO. It don’t mean shit.
Who, if I cried out, would hear me now
among the anonymous orders of his court
already telling tales and casting blame,
each self-serving Morningstar-to-middlebrow
media interlocutor: in short:
nothing changes; everything’s the same.