Dismembered, one stroke of the pen,
One dollar at a time—
The arsonists are in charge of the fire station.
Destruction plumes, forcing fumes
To an indifferent, hazy sky.
Books and art in the sulphur flames
Crackle and snap alongside
Food scraps for the aged and
Melting plastic eyes of children’s puppets—
The radio hisses its last static,
The water leeches its lead,
Flowing down the strip mine scar.
A fiery freight car carries the lost
To the pyre on the River of the Dead.
In this deconstruction of the administrative state,
We’re all going to be deconstructed, destructed and
Tossed into the mass grave of alternative facts.
What did you expect?