Donald Trump Dreams Kubla Khan


Or, a nightmare on waking. A Fragment.

In New York City Donald Trump 
Made tacky things that all could see 
Where East and Hudson River ran 
Round where where the tallest buildings stand
 And few can pay the fee. 
So thirteen miles of once free ground 
With realtors’ dreams of wealth abound; 
And concrete spaces rules fulfill, 
And fewer spaces we can sit for free 
There’s falling glass from windows without sill, 
Endangering such as me and thee.

But wait! There’s more!

For when our sweet romantic hero ranted 
Others on the chain looked him over! 
Such savagery! So bilious and so slanted 
As as ever could leave ingenues well-daunted 
And doomed to cry out for a saving cover! 
And from this sweet concatenation seething, 
As if the world was having trouble breathing
A mighty mouse was there and then aborn
Not named Rockefeller, Mellon, Durst 
A fortune clanging like empty milk pails
Or rancid insults from the stern boy’s trails 
And mid this virtuality the thought forever 
Birthed fear betwixt the East and Hudson River. 
The center part all blazoned in one motion 
No wood, no dale, no sacred, nothing ran, 
Only the trembling in the depths of man, 
Perchance a sinking in a fetid ocean; 
Why have ancestors? Here! Prophesy war! 
Amid this fell confusion Donald heard.

The wisp of a new pleasure 
 It floated out there past this isle; 
 Where crowds might rise like dinosaurs 
 And resonate to my repeated raves

Ah a magnificence past all this undrunk wine, 
A nation lies in wait. I’ll make it mine.

Somewhere in eastern Europe 
 A truth I once perceived 
 Multiple beauties rose like dreams 
 I listened for some same old tune 
 Evoking Nanny strains. 
 I have no time for memory 
 Or even for a song 
 There is a new elixir in me 
And with luck I’ll not go wrong, 
I will build a world for you, 
A phony sun! Some subway views! 
And all who come will see me there, 
And those who cried, Beware! Beware! 
They’ll sup from my extended hand! 
And grovel while the Service stares 
Then all will know the holy dread 
For I on meat-loaf am well-fed, 
And drink milk in my king-sized bed.