Untitled poem with fretless electric bass and guitar

 

Sick, sick, sick, sick,sick...et infinitum.     What?   No front page pic with a homely mystery man claiming to be a patsy?   Like the whole Lee Harvey Oswald thing?    Star studded.  Right out of Andy Warhol's Factory.  The glitz and drama, the mystique of the century.   

Where the hell's the conspiracy, for goodness sake?   Why can't a crazed hayseed or taxi driver in cowboy boots, K-bar knife taped to his ankle, ankle holster on the other ankle, photogenic as the lead actor in the film Taxi Drive, trot into the lime light and have his day on meet the press, with his manifesto professionally typed, he gets a free American Tourister brief case, striped rayon neck tie,  white shirt, dark suit.  What happened to the United States?   We used to be a photogenic country.  I'm angry because the attempted shooting yesterday lacks an appropriate mass shitload of conspiracy theories.  Fuck it, I'll start:  Space cretins.  Stupid, dimwitted creatures from outer space tried to whack Trump and pin it on some poor dumb hick from East Buttfuck.  There.  That's all you know, all you need to know, and I'm stealing words from a poet.  Over and out.