Pre-weekend tree prayer beneath midnight blue.
Eerie sirens break the cold with shrieks to nowhere.
Above, the clouds hide war machines, same as the observers who’ve pushed us to this brink.
Yes, there’s multiple brinks.
Bass-rattled trunks will give way to the thunderous destructions at city’s edge.
A rumble at first, followed by the erasure of everything we’ve ever known.
But for now, the inhale.
The calm before the storm.
Mr. Tingle before the Ocarina squeaks.
Zelda sex-puns; my powers be vast, knave.
Space debris; set me free.
Bury deez nutz at Wounded Knee.
Trump-a-dump-dump.
Three humps on a chump.
It’s senseless, like the rest.
Everything, all, everyone.
Gaslight, mask-face, with government issued ammo.
If you squint and hold your head sideways, JD Vance looks like a fat-ass Jack Torrance.
“You’ve always been the couch-fakka, Mr. Vice President,” explained Delbert Grady in the Mar-A-Lago bathroom while wiping the crusties from his inverted penis divot mimicking his best Bostonian.
Penis divot; dibs.
Just once; just once.
Can we have a leader who’s not so easy to clown?
Me brain hurts.
The Gonzo Wolf 
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