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A Letter to Trump
It is not a prayer for his mercy.
You’ll be dead at ninety-two or three (my dreams often come true) pale in the embrace of your coffin, while history will place you with the ragged, crushed, pitiful men wearing the yoke of shame: Starlin, Hitler, Pol Pot, Putin, all men for whom you hold great esteem.
I hope your demise is long and painful, a body racked with the monstrous frenzy of humming insects buzzing around in your brain and remembered as a man who tried to extinguish liberty while seeking wealth, glitter, and parade, a man who will find his place in the orgy of hell.
You have become one of the world’s great invalids and criminals, but soon enough, clarity will find you out. The truth will open you up like a cow's stomach at slaughter.
You managed to make churches ugly, you, a man without a religious bone in your body. No one will stifle sobs over your tomb.
Only God knows what destroyed you, prostituted you, and filled women’s throats full of your disgust for them.
You will be remembered as your great country’s enemy within.
You preposterous fuck!
