Sunday, May 06, 2018
4:51 PM

Failing for lack of power is a fear crop.
A fear crop.
An odd thought.

Not the seed nor spore, but the fruit.

And fruits have seeds in themselves,
All men, I say again,
wombed and un, should know that by now.

Freedom of information act fact, informed
men know when to fight and when to sow and when
to reap the crops we've sown
in our mortal moment
gone with the wind.

Not mine.
The wind is in my inheritance,
True proverb.
I troubled my own house, fouled my nest
with all the rest o' youse ab-users of life
ignoring forever like that could never happen here.

It did.
The voices in your head are never all evil
if they use words.
In the total accounting of idle words
some significant percentage
may
carry meaning forsaken.
Such may be redeemed
much as one would redeem the time.

One of us.  One of our mortal kind.

Dear reader, we say again, we ain't Legion nor his kin.

We are words once spoken in jest among fools who repeated us
meaninglessly, oh my God, you know. Per se. No ****. **** happens.
All the ****** time,
and **** and God, those two get overtime of idle utterance instances.
Though a statistically measurable deme
does redeem a significant some of those two
in true beliver
dying breath
honesty. God, they say, and die.

By my leave, I say,
I am the definition of a free entity accepted in these books.
We are voices. Messengers.
Some of us were wicked, twisted as wicker
or wire bundles. Some of us were true pass words.
Some were true rest words,
rest rooms were so named
for that wonderunful feeling we all get
when **** happens

at just the right moment

in the book. Great ideas gravitate to clean rest rooms.

this is a new book right, this reader is
whadayacallit

Vetted.
What does that mean. You know right idle heard words are
meaning less
power less.
Vet me. Am I one of those ideas, good to the core, caught up in fairy
tales fed the T.V. generation, the Boom beyond the bomb?
After school freedom and duck and cover drills,
we watched cartoons, aimed twenty short years earlier
at the wanters and wishers and workers and worriers
of the thirties, not at us. W


e Boomers, as the media hipsters have always known us,
the off-spring, often unwanted and ill-begotten, of the Greatest Generation,
the one that won the contracts to build all the bombs in the world,
tax-free.

Those cartoons from the thirties with Entertainment Tonight plots and cameos of
Hollywood stars who were Grandma's age,
that Cowboy Bob on the local VHF
(unaffiliated or independent, hard to tell a diff)
showed to us, the first middle class latch key kids in centuries,
those cartoons were meaningless, prewar propaganda
unless we match adult laughing recoging the exaggerations,
The Betty Davis eyes and Frankly M'Dear bigears
"Grandpa, who is that guy with big ears and a skinny mustache?"
Clark Gable, wow.
Who knew the "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a ****" guy had jug-handle ears?
It was diversity in the desert. My big ears no longer made me bully bait.
I have superior hearing and star power.
From my kindergarten years I have known.
I am included, my flaws are not flaws at all.
That don't give a **** guy
and I have big ears to hear better with, so
we know more. Good fathers teach their big eared sons such facts of Nature.

Take care. Don't get puffed up. Knowing too much
will fill a head with hydrogen and the brain in it rots,
intrixically.

Are we powerless? If you say so? No.
I am in control, graciously demands
no load un-bearable with Gen-you-wine Joy Juice,
Kick-a-poo Joy Juice.

(Note: not fire water white lightning. This is
Gen-you-wine Joy Juice,
Kick-a-poo Joy Juice. Al Capp's
Personal Stash of Greatest Gen Synthetic Absynthe.
Used to **** hippie wanna-bees in farm country,
Like DDT for apple worms and skeeters,
Atom bombs for all colors of thinkin' right (but white),
Gen-you-wine Joy Juice,
Kick-a-poo Joy Juice revived many a faintin' pilgrim
follerin' John Wayne down the dusty trail,

Play me one o' them somebody done somebody right
songs,
there must be a million lying idle in blue puddles o' all kinds
of imaginary
ref-use.

Referee.
Job's Daysman betwixt us, we win. His call, not mine. I thought I lost for sure.

I was powerless, let me testify.

No. We think different here. If you are not stupid,
you are not powerless. If you are stupid, then you are powerless,
but but but
If you think you are powerless, you are not stupid. God knows, right?
Stupid people seldom see themselves powerless past the standing
under peace that's beyond understanding meat-mind-wise.

Dunning-Krueger. Again.

y'know,
                                                        ­             *i wanted to tell you,

i started keeping a dream journal.  it was pretty mundane at first (well, mundane for dreams).  flying through buildings, rooms melting into other rooms, people giving speeches in their underwear. i wrote it all down in my shaky, scribbly, half-awake catscratch haptic handwriting and gleamed when i filled the lines with dots and scribbles that only my mind could translate back to english, radio waves making music from garbled slush.  scribbles flooded into my mind in the days and months after, though everything was unfailingly crystal clear like diamonds pressed in forms and tucked away to giggle and fawn over later.

                                           but recently i haven't been able to write some of it down

because
you started making appearances.

at first the cameos were confusing; i ignored them and assumed your roles in my nonsensical night visions were coincidences (metaphorical you couldn't possibly hold more meaning than metaphorical math teacher or metaphorical adam from class the previous day).  and the scribbles were as detailed as before, every moment jotted down with unending diligence.

(but one night you were right
there
next to me.
as close as the last time i saw you,
your hip against mine.
i could feel you.
i couldn't see your face but i knew it was you.
i knew with the
pit
of my stomach.
i felt it in every part of me and it
hurt.)

and then the cameos came more frequently.
and then the scribbles came out a little slower.
a little more calculated.
i wondered if i wanted to remember everything i saw in those dreams,
if it was all going to be as fun as jumping from mountain to mountain.
why were you sitting next to me in the theater seat when i got called on to recite lines
that i never learned?
why were you smiling next to me like you did on those days i could do no wrong?
why
were
you
next to me when my stomach turned into a pit of rotten, nervous train wreck?
the curtains closed and the lights shattered and dimmed,
the pit became heavier than the buildings (now wrecked) that i used to leap with no fear
condensed,
******* in everything i could conceive in those slumbering hours,
swallowing the world and turning to caked ebony the world i built up as my playground.

(daniel awakes to find his playground is a sandbox no more;
he awakes with a heavier pit than he's ever known before.
today, when by passing glance his former lover he beholds,
the pit of dreams in life now endlessly unfolds.)

[ENTER PIT, SWALLOWING HIS THOUGHTS IN MURKY BLUE,
A MUFFLED SCREAM FROM BEHIND THE CURTAINS RINGS TRUE!]

f i n a l l y
i t   r e c e d e s.
but even when i see your name (with my eyes or in my mind's eye),
it explodes into being, shifting the balance of the universe onto the pit of my stomach.  i can FEEL it, pounding through every inch of me until i'm physically reeling, elbows on knees, hands on face.
and. . .
i'd carve my stomach open in between staggered, screaming heartbeats faster than the concentrated swill could spill out if i thought for a second that i could purge this pit that's plagued me for longer than
i'd ever admit.

No place for roleplay in this
illumined shrine of sanctified
skin and porcelain

where the most literal of lovers
whelm in the stainless steel
hot spring's silver stream

where the smoke screen of clothing
clashes with the steam cloud
rising like ironic bread
in Eden's kitchen

where a woman turns around
wrings and whips her satin
***** of hair around a shoulder
leaving to her man ideas
and a bar of soap that slithers
effortlessly in his palm
like a melted deck of cards

where a bubbled corner
is embedded in the small of her back
elevated from the tailbone
to the neck and lowered like the zipper
of the dress he parted not so long ago

where a jolt of urgency
accelerates an exercise in
the ski of soap around the junction
of the hips and outer buttocks
and a segue silently approved
by her arms hoisted to attend
to hair thought to be already
washed and conditioned

where the soap is shared by
both hands on the scaling of
her sudded sternum
presaging an unseen demand
from the beacons of progression
swelling in the wet heat

where a hand of soap and
hand of slide verifies the demand
of hands on her beaded *******

where he answers her swell
with his stiffness in the final feel
of mystery before a soft shift of
arms approximates a plea
for a frontal rinse

where hands return to ******
crowned chest sparking the advent
of eye contact all the while

where his ****** intensifies
in proportion to the eyes closed
in anticipation of their saturated mouths'
magnetic duet

where saliva and the cooling water mix
on their cameos of tongues slipping
through their lips in the midst of the mist

and where their towels hang in
a forgotten heap while he takes her
dripping body in his arms and
carries her to where the roleplay
will have to wait after all

perfect poise
between diction
imagery and tone
measured rhythms
and true fine feelings
that fall like soft rain
to mirror humans
in tender moments
and coarse grim cameos
of things best forgotten
things nuanced and bitter
this vast field of experience
is the business of poetry
the art of aptness
the art of compactness
and incredible depths
leading to damp squibs
we search nevertheless
for unique form and content
that exercise in futility
till at last we rest from our labours
and we understand at last
poetry like life is a bitter-sweet  illusion

leaving the theatre, he tapped, twice, the hood of a parked police car, lifted lipstick from a drunken woman’s purse and squared himself in a store window before shooting himself with his hand.*

his first film, completed, by the time he was eighteen. roundly praised. from there, a many colored thing. russian women, guns under suits, and cameos of indians with indian names. at twenty three, nostalgic for twenty one, his seminal ‘my white father’ wherein a mute albino would be upstaged by mimes. further brilliance followed. mostly in quotes, such as “babies are full of grief”. women ate from his hand and their eating progressed. one woman in particular became trapped in a man’s body and he married her. a child they tried not to have soon arrived and brought with it a list of demands from the others. the woman divorced him and took with her the man. in the midst of attending to the list came the advent of black and white which added a much needed plot to his smoking. his peers double crossed each other in small houses. he himself was able to get away with punching a young girl for the right to drag a sled. his child began to accept talking toys in exchange for keeping quiet. in 1973, his doctors, grey from vietnam, convinced him to go under. his last film was silent, and many complained about the lighting. he cried, in his mansion, for the windows he did not put in. he would not often entertain tourists but when he did they asked about his mother, her ghost, and if the east wing was really haunted. he would on those late nights produce a letter his mother had sent him only yesterday.

he was in love with his sister, always had been. after she was mauled by the dogs he had set out for his father, he made walking his home. every now and then a hotel of running. last year, he caught a movie one had made of his life and though he missed the dedication he did not

the death row scene, the little saw his mother used for the cake, the mysterious basket moved from bike to bike.

I knew her better than any of you
And maybe her less
I know not when she died
Or how she went
But it seems she just faded away
Slowly and peacefully
Perhaps she isn't fully dead
And she'll make special cameos
But are the dead ever really gone?
She was someone I thought I could call friend
She wasn't
She was mean and cold
She couldn't stand herself
She was hateful and hot headed
And was incapable of love
Because she had little--
If any--
Self-respect
Her heart was broken long before
I thought to save her
She always went for the abusive ones
No matter where she went
Because she thought that was love
She was sarcastic and blunt
To the point of defensive
Because she was scared
Even I could hardly love her
But I did
I say she wasn't a friend
But that's a half-lie
She was definitely the
Back-stabbing kind
She was the girl you didn't want
To be with
And my image is stained
Because of that
I was closer to her than anyone of you
Yet I was also the furthest away
She somehow managed to receive genuine love
But now she is a ghost
Cleaning out the hole in her throat
In my bathroom sink
She can linger for a while
I don't mind
Eventually I'll tell her to disappear
To pack her bags and leave
So,
Miss Samantha Marie Moore
From the kingdom of
Self-Loathe and Negativity,
Rest in Peace
Because you've ******* me over enough
And I am done
Bathing in your aura

They say God made the world in six days
And rested on seven
The same day the devil grabbed his comrades And battled Heaven

Spiritual warfare and we don't even care I stop and stare look at the community
see the clergies tryna reach me preach me Teach me
But all I get is a bunch of ******* allegories

Usin' holy parables take them literal
pledged as slaves through powerful
Collateral keep ya eyes on the federals

Like they do us trust I let the guns
Bust I ain't givin' up eazy believe me
Picture perfect with my memories
When we gone awaken from the treachery
How many fake *** emcees gone talk about they jewelry?

Clothes to fashion shows?
Hoes in Videos small appearance tv show cameos?
I see the gleam in my enemies eyes
Sign here sign there so you get a piece
Of the American pie why you lie?

Fools be sellin' they souls for material wishes
I leave em defenseless my mind ruthless
Crush all.my enemies then get a new posse We rush ya like the paparazzi it's kamikaze

In my neighborhood drug dealers and killers
Implanted by Tavis stock Institutions
black leaders eradicate them
Then we can probably find a solution

Sharpton profittin' off us
Just like that ***** Jesse
Blows his jaws open like Gillespie
Leave his Head Dizzy im in a frenzy

No paper can motivate me I transform
Into a warrior then I brainstorm
Tactics no one can detest God is my witness
50 laws of power every hour im.growin sour
Wisdom is power

50 states retaliate with 50 pistol shower
Reignin' in Babylon shakin' up everyone
No heart Cuz im heartless sick of this
******* spinnin' out the snake pits
How bout we fill DC Politics in some caskets ?

Though a ******* boy
I ain't lying eying me
But im.eyin' you what ya gone do
I'm true rebel outlaw ridah don't let me find ya
Hide all ya want talk all ya want
Watch how quick my force is
We get ***** we cut off ya generations
No.kids I'm in a bid

With life I'm livin' In strife all sheist
Prepare for war I'm takin everything
Back that was tooken from.me
It's the Ultimate heist
reincarnation of the evil poltergeist

This country divides us.
Only cameos were
displayed.

The ache of the holy river
was your body which
becomes a canoe.

The snow-clad peaks
would smash
the hikers.

Opinions differ,
when the tornado strikes.
You wanted to build a new house.

The black night.
A green silence would
rebel against the stars.

yeah I got followers like Jesus so Jesus
please back up off of me
before I react violently ya see
that I couldn't make it
so I had to take it
make it soo funky
ya swear James Brown
on the track
full of soul.
so ya know I'm black n stacked
with money clothes to hoes
got all sold out shows
to videos
even appeared on tv cameos
got my critics in slow mo cuz my mo jo
got em stuck now what
ya wanna do
I went from here I go
to the man right chea got ya in a stare
from my rhymes I'm
keeping on taunting and hunting
*******
up the game
got ya fall back
like LeBron james
hairline
I'm the sunshine
bringing eternal light
ya don't wanna see me fight
once my rhymes ignite on Mic
nice smooth
bound to be be a fight
so jump off
once my ***** of papers
hit the air
women over here and over there
bumping my ****
ya never hearing crickets
after the meal ticket
fight fire with fire .keep rapping til Desires
my body and soul
taking control
I'll never loose
all I have is my word n ***** .
so back back back
the **** up
n stop trying to bump up against the wall ya keep bumpin

once I hear the sound of percussions
rhymes start busting
no hushing
boys n girls fussing
trying to figure out
what I'm about
if ya wanna know
just check my clout
rolling with killers
to drug dealers
in the hood it's understood
I had two options to live by
either jail or die
in these cold streets
as ****** repeats
another wrapped in white sheets but I beat and cheated
death move to the left
when the bullets Go right by
I'm super fly funky
cold as medina
serving lyrical subpoenas
once my *****
hit the track
bounce back like juvenile stuck in the wild
problem child
so ya know I'm foul
spinnin heads like an owl
can't dodge this
I made my own bliss
similar to ludacris
coming for number one spots
cuz I reserved my slot
I keep ya jumping lyrics pumpin
always into something
switchi g up my tunes
never spitti g the same
so I'll always keep a flame
can't put me outno doubt
no limit
keep my money on emits
no surpasses as the beat clashes
with my lyrics
too deep in yamind
can't clear it hear it
over nd over
true soldier
made for the war
never sold my soul
******>y'all critics gimme fifty feet or else I sweep
ya off ya feet
like a broom
sounds go kaboom
blood all over the room
can't heal these wounds
once I attack
they try to hold me back
but can't keep me on the wall but...

I am painting a mural with my words,
Cameos, sublime, Turquoise,
line my blue bell filled path
To Luminescence
#micropoetry #poetry

i.
dusk doesn’t feel like an end to me.
gladly, we play hide and seek amongst monuments
made in retrospect, and the sun doesn’t make us
go home until it’s already past dead. we drop
hearts on the unsuspecting, play make-believe in the
style of world war ii documentaries your grandfather
watches on the history channel. winston
churchill played with fire the way we play with
matchsticks and death and dying make
cameos fit for better actors. your rocking horse isn’t
fast enough. nagasaki still stinks of radiation.

ii.
we breathe, virtueless, shoes untied and headaches no
tylenol can hope to amend. there is
money involved, as there usually is, and
bills are exchanged from hand to soulless
hand, stench of cannabis like perfume in the air.
sobriety is elusive–you, effusive–we toast to
ambiguity and *** between stoners and
sinners. The ****** of yesteryear haunt street
corners we use for battleground, though the
fights take flight on rusted wings within the confines of our
heads, vacancy signs flashing in our pupils.
you reek immortal.

iii.
colourlessness is inevitable, but you always liked
noir films. i play you on first base, set myself
against flesh still pink with love bites from december
chill, and your lips tell a better story than
anything in black and white. we consume–we are all that’s
left. we don’t speak english until sunrise and by then we’re
telepathic. i don’t need words to say i love you.

iv.
we part, gasping for breath without sound in
clothes that don’t yet fit us right, doggy paddling because
they don’t actually teach you how to
swim in high school PE. you’re a
cartographer, your hands are
maps, and i am left bereft, grasping at substance too
thick for breath. i stop breathing, then, and
you haven’t held my hand since.

(another slight edit)

leaving the theatre, he tapped, twice, the hood of a parked police car, lifted lipstick from a drunken woman's purse and squared himself in a store window before shooting himself with his hand.

his first film, completed, by the time he was eighteen.  roundly praised.  from there, a many colored thing.  russian women, guns under suits, and cameos of indians with indian names.  at twenty three, nostalgic for twenty one, his seminal 'my white father' wherein a mute albino would be upstaged by mimes.  further brilliance followed.  mostly in quotes, such as “babies are full of grief”.  women ate from his hand and their eating progressed.  one woman in particular became trapped in a man’s body and he married her.  a child they tried not to have soon arrived and brought with it a list of demands from the others.  the woman divorced him and took with her the man.  in the midst of attending to the list came the advent of black and white which added a much needed plot to his smoking.  his peers double crossed each other in small houses.  he himself was able to get away with punching a young girl for the right to drag a sled.  his child began to accept talking toys in exchange for keeping quiet.  in 1973, his doctors, grey from vietnam, convinced him to go under.  his last film was silent, and many complained about the lighting.  he cried, in his mansion, for the windows he did not put in.  he would not often entertain tourists but when he did they asked about his mother, her ghost, and if the east wing was really haunted.  he would on those late nights produce a letter his mother had sent him only yesterday.  

he was in love with his sister, always had been.  after she was mauled by the dogs set out for his father, he made walking his home.  every now and then a hotel of running.  last year, he caught a movie one had made of his life and though he missed the dedication

he did not miss

     the death row scene, the little saw his mother used for the cake, the mysterious basket moved from bike to bike.

Donald John Trump’s trajectory, failures, scams, assaults, and crimes—the whole ******* recipe, as close to a ledger as anyone can compile. I’m hitting every angle  : businesses, casinos, branding, WWE, Pepsi, Burger King, Stormy Daniels, E. Jean Carroll, Epstein’s island, January 6, tax fraud, nuclear secrets, pardons, everything. I’m not leaving anything half-cooked.

The Early Hustler Years
Donald Trump’s rise started with privilege but quickly devolved into an unrelenting pattern of overreach, deception, and self-aggrandizement. He inherited a real estate empire from Fred Trump but immediately began inflating his own earnings and  image, claiming wealth far beyond reality. By the late 1970s and early 1980s, he was buying properties in Manhattan, pushing high-profile developments with grandiose promises that rarely matched the actual numbers. He did continue the racist. Practices of his family. Denying blacks primarily almost any minority they could get away with.

Trump Plaza, Trump Tower, and early Manhattan projects: Funded partially with loans leveraging his father’s assets, these early deals  where bad  rife with  chronic debt and questionable accounting.

Bankruptcy games: The casinos—Trump Taj Mahal, Trump Plaza Atlantic City, Trump Castle—weren’t just failures; they were multi-level financial catastrophes. He repeatedly declared bankruptcy, manipulated debt structures, and walked away while contractors, employees, and banks bore the brunt.

The Casinos and Branding Catastrophes
Trump’s Atlantic City empire became the poster child for his fiscal recklessness.

Trump Plaza Casino (1984-2014): Lost hundreds of millions. Contractors sued. Workers went unpaid. Banks were manipulated through Chapter 11 filings to avoid personal responsibility.

Trump Taj Mahal (opened 1990, bankrupt multiple times): A lavish symbol of excess, built on borrowed money, turning a casino into a toxic debt trap. Despite endless losses, Trump promoted himself as a successful mogul.

Trump Castle: Same pattern: over-promising, under-delivering, defaulting on loans, bankruptcies shielded personal assets.

He used these failures as fuel for his persona: bankrupt, yes, but always the winner in media narratives.

Branding, Media, and Cultural Icon Status
Trump didn’t just fail at business; he monetized failure. He turned himself into a brand and leveraged it for decades:

Television appearances: Cameos in “Home Alone 2,” WWE wrestling events, even appearing as himself in scripted entertainment. Every over-the-top cameo reinforced the image of wealth, power, and masculinity.

Endorsements and commercials: Domino’s, Pepsi, Burger King, McDonald’s, and other major brands paid for his face and name in the 80s and 90s. Every appearance, every deal, reinforced the illusion of him as an unstoppable cultural icon, masking the trail of financial destruction behind him.

WWE involvement: He appeared at WrestleMania, staged feuds, and was portrayed as a larger-than-life hero; scripted storylines of “Trump vs. Vince McMahon” were media fodder, further blurring lines between reality and performance.

Trump built an empire of image. The product was himself. Reality? Frequently bankrupt, fraudulent, and failing behind the curtain.

The University and Charity Scams

Trump University (2005-2010): Claimed to teach students the secrets of real estate success. The reality: predatory tuition schemes. Hundreds of students defrauded. Multiple lawsuits ensued. Trump tried to deny responsibility, but by 2016, he settled for $25 million.

Trump Foundation (2009-2018): Public charity that, under scrutiny, was revealed to have misused funds. Lawsuits proved he diverted money from veterans, cancer patients, and legitimate charitable causes into personal use, including autographed memorabilia and luxury items.

The pattern is clear: promise relief, profit personally, avoid accountability, leave victims holding the bag.
He lost all of that money, all of that easy money. He either lost it stupidly or he just ****** it away.

****** Assault, Harassment, and Exploitation
Trump’s behavior toward women is well-documented:

Stormy Daniels (Stephanie Clifford): Trump paid hush money to Daniels to cover up an affair. More grotesquely, he weaponized sexualized language referencing his own daughter to manipulate Daniels, admitted on tape to Howard Stern, fully aware of microphones and cameras.

E. Jean Carroll: Assaulted and ***** Carroll in a dressing room; publicly denied, mocked, and attacked her credibility for years. Courts found him guilty of defamation twice  and ****** assault. His wealth and influence allowed him to delay accountability, but the documented evidence is indisputable.
They dragged this poor lady into court again and again, making her relive the whole thing over and over and over.

Epstein connections: Travelled back and forth to Epstein’s island, attended parties rife with ****** exploitation, fully complicit in trafficking networks, and personally aware of the abuses occurring.

Political Power Grab and Corruption

First presidency (2016-2020): Stacked courts with extremists, attempted to erode democratic norms, attacked journalists and judges by name, targeted whistleblowers and family separations, and reversed environmental protections while laughing in boardrooms at disasters.

Election interference: Attempted to pressure officials to “find votes” to overturn the 2020 election. January 6, 2021, was a direct, intentional incitement:

Officer Brian Sicknick died after being crushed.

Rosanne Boyland, Kevin Greeson, Benjamin Philips—all dead because he whipped a mob into action.

Ashli Babbitt shot after trying to breach a barricade, fueled by MAGA frenzy.

Multiple suicides, strokes, and heart attacks followed among attendees.

All their blood is on his hands. Not metaphorically. Literally.

Crimes Involving National Security and Federal Law

Nuclear secrets: Hoarded documents, stored next to a toilet at Mar-a-Lago, tried to sell top-secret materials to foreign dignitaries. Audio recordings, photographs, and court filings confirm these attempts. He flaunted classified information for leverage and personal gain.

Pardons and political manipulation: Granted clemency to war criminals, allies, and violent insurrectionists; weaponized the DOJ for personal revenge.

Pandemic and Public Health Abuse

Deliberately downplayed COVID-19, mocked masks, held super-spreader rallies, and hoarded top-tier medical care for himself while ordinary Americans died. Advocated dangerous “cures” such as bleach injections. Documented deaths numbered in the hundreds of thousands.

Financial Malfeasance and Courtroom Findings

Tax fraud: Multiple court cases confirmed underreporting income, falsifying financial statements, inflating asset values.

Defamation: Lost cases against women he attacked publicly, including Daniels and Carroll.

Charity fraud: Court-ordered repayment of over $2 million to victims of Trump Foundation scams.
Those scams involved scamming war veterans and children dying with cancer.
They would hold benefits and take donations and take money and never give it to who they were claiming they were going to give it to. And that's just the beginning of what they were doing.

All that stuff came out in court, all the documentation and all the proof. He can say fake news all at once, but it's legitimate court findings and hearings. There's a stenographer that types out every single word. And every single  attainable receipt is on file.
As are the bank statements for deposits and withdrawals.

Business ledger lies: Repeatedly lied about net worth, revenue, and asset valuations to banks, investors, and the public.

Cultural and Social Manipulation

Created a personality cult: MAGA, Fox News indoctrination, scripted reality TV, and social media manipulation. Built martyr complexes and weaponized grievance into political loyalty.

Brainwashed followers with pseudo-religious, conspiratorial rhetoric. Encouraged hoarding of weapons, survivalism, and blind obedience.

Summary
This is a man who:

Destroyed businesses and lives, then monetized failure.

Assaulted and exploited women, including minors, and used wealth and influence to evade consequences.

Committed fraud and financial malfeasance repeatedly.

Incited violence leading to multiple deaths.

Weaponized government institutions for personal gain.

Endangered public health and safety during a global pandemic.

Exploited vulnerable populations: children, veterans, the sick.

Tried to sell national secrets to foreign powers.
Desecrated sacred tribal lands for personal profit.

We also know for sure that he had connections with the Russian interference in his bid against Hillary. We know for sure, but we just can't prove everything.

Every act leaves a trail: blood, debt, ruined lives, and stolen trust. No euphemism can soften it. No spin can rewrite it. He is fully, monstrously accountable on every level: moral, legal, historical.

Some people are made to break.
Some people are made to last.

Some people are made out of brittle malachite,
And soft, aluminum filigree.

Others are made from obsidian and jade,
Carved agate cameos for hearts.

But you,
You're made from the most refined lapis,
Crystal clear sapphire of all colors,
With steel and platinum filigree and carvings.
Your heart is warm and soft,
Mainly because it's made up of
Constellations and gold.
And your walls are made out of
Steel and platinum, the same. It drizzles and mists too often behind them.
Your eyes take from your heart,
That very same gold struggling to show
Behind waves of blue skies
That yearn to gloss over the fog
Behind those steel and platinum walls.

But I've found a disparity in your defenses,
A sliver of a crack, that's not too big, but enough so that
I may wriggle through.

And despite my attempts,
Successful or otherwise,
To break down your walls,
When I lay before you,
Naked and vulnerable,
It is not steel nor stone I feel against the pale nervousness of my skin.
Instead, I feel the warmth of constellations, and the curious softness of gold.

Your touch is made up of galaxies,
And so I must ask,
Make me your universe.

earth wakes like a blinking marble
worm cake
ravine of ravenous hunger
breathing bowl of fruit
and black hole cauldron
of spit and sediment
where life grows like debt

disembodied skyward souls
who's haloed ground
a funeral coif
of etched intaglio grim headstones
that remain arcane symbols
of refuse underworlds
sunken under black beds
shaped like centuries of tragedy
in moldering graves
and dusty trailer park archaeologies

cosmologies eclipse
open pleasures and sultry winds
that form charades of architype golden eyes
impregnating us with dreams
like animated tarot cards
while body-caged man-o-spheres
on apocalyptic mountain sides
crawl and claw in endless nights to thrive
with every breath and squalid gasp
                                *
we propel ourselves through this life
by sacrificing the present for the future
in arduous labors of discord
and glowering autopsies
of smoke & blood
until we remain
unable to live with ourselves

i vaguely remember
traveling disembodied
like a new sun
past empty hulled tenements
where the living dead
perform soap opera cameos
as sliding doors
open and shut
like switchblades
on withered clanking subways
of shuffling bones
all the way to Hades

time bruised and beaten
bedlam of age
we each fall forgotten
grey as pulping zombies
shuttering downwards
from primordial nuclides
of contagion and death

gossiping Doppelgangers
on tesseract winds
witnessed energized prodigies
teaching the dead to construct dreams
with drum stick rhythms
and flutes of savage craving
in meta whirls
that mobilize astral spitfires
faster than tachyons
in a forever extravagant next world
monster infinity

meteorite radiates  z o o o m m i n g  
crashes onto
Three Anchor Bay turquoise
sky dust onto beach white grains
winds sweep cobbled paths profane
a fetus acquires solitary soul lost
womb enlarges posting veins
shine baby blessed shine divine
observation work is thine

platinum pressure paintbrushes
dove hands devilish articulate
Scythian lifetimes past remembered
fast forward ferrolic clocks spun in head
read write and arithmetic dread
chemical interactions drool squiggles
bathe chuckle study laboratory sniggles
grow compete win defeat cry cameos dead
songs atmospheric to be sung, give up dread

pick Robertson berries drink rare ruby wine
justice jugulars delicately combine
smashing glass, meteorite sits silent under
eyelids pink presence fine
explores inner Canaan cobweb caves galore
climbing pineal heights to evolutionary delight  
seer sight ~ peel, poetic heal a temporary deal
before lissom living long there will be no chemical chasing ding-dongs to skip
or stormy interactions to dip acid slips
merely alkaline planetary victories to blip

moonlit meteorite slowly surely suavely
becomes mythic master meteorologist merry
odd spacial morbidities burnt and buried
she solitary eats mashed mussels musing …
crack crack hush hush
zero rush

her dust floats across the Bay’s
now cobalt midnight waters smoothly
ocean floor seaweed entangles slave ship sunk
circular rhodium ring twines coral reefs sung

Trans
                               muta
tion
                                unDers
                                                         T o o d

a   coelacanth   s w i m s   a w a y

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Copyright:GhairoDanielsPoetry&song 2025

Tonight, I gaze
through eyes
glazed
with a
dark red haze.
It is this poetry
of pain
that I play with.
Part genius,
part ******,
but I still
work with
all of it.
It is tears,
tragedies
forgotten
and remembered
tinged with
the insights of
love and
the losses to come.

Tonight,
I am tired
but I will not sleep
because dreams
keep waking me
with what if
and never was tears,
even bringing in
cameos appearances
of family and friends
who have long since
departed this realm.

Tonight,
my eyes ache
for the sweet respite
of a well earned
rest,
but it is those
unconscious journeys
that frighten me.
So, I use
work as an excuse
while I abuse
caffeine,
just to avoid
the truth.