I’ve never cared for bondage,
but at night I have
explosive wet dreams
(my ceiling, like a sticky
Jackson Pollack
painting that no one
would ever want,
will never be clean again)
about Condoleezza Rice
in a police uniform,
talking about spreading
American hegemony,
all the while spreading
my legs,
badge, gun, taser, etc.…
handcuffing me to a bed
as Mike Pence,
in a ball-gag,
spanks me.
“You’ve been a bad boy,” he says.
“You need to be punished
and punished good.”
We will reason the devil
right out of you,” he says.

Nipple torture doesn’t
generally do it for me,
but I do enjoy some clamps...
especially when applied by
Jonathan Turley or Nancy Reagan.
“We are living in a period of
agitated passions,” Turley says,
while tightening the vice.
“Fast and narrow is not a good
recipe for impeachment,” he says,
just as it’s not a recipe
for the pleasure/pain
intersection
of a good nipple tweaking.
He does it to make me scream,
but he also does it to spite
Mike Pence.

I don’t generally support
public nudity,
I’m shy and clumsy after all,
but Sarah Sanders and I
run through the National Mall
where we take turns deep-throating
the Washington Monument,
through the Smithsonian,
and through the Library of Congress
buck-ass-naked.
She brings her store-bought pies
and claims she baked them herself.
We smear them all over each other
as we wander
the portrait gallery.
Covered in meringue, chocolate cream
or three-berry goodness,
we peruse the paintings of
George Washington,
the Williams sisters,
Jay-Z, and Mikhail Baryshnikov.
Oh, god yes! Mikhail Baryshnikov.
We couldn’t find a painting of
Mike Pence,
but we looked.
Damn right we did.

Enemas are kinda nasty,
unless of course they are
administered by Ronbo himself,
just like he administered
them to the nation at
the 1984 GOP convention.
He never talked about AIDS
or crack,
but he sure as shit
talked about the problems
of our inner cities.
He cleaned out our inner cities
and our inner intestines too,
just as he personally
cleans out mine
as the water rushes in
and all my filth
is washed from my
mind.

I never speak of these things
publicly though because on
21 December 1993
we learned that we should
neither ask nor tell.
As Monica Lewinsky
inserted the cigar,
and her blue dress forever
stained our national
consciousness,
Bill Clinton defined sexual
relations
in a way most beneficial
to this poem
but most problematic
for the country.

I never speak of these things
publicly though because on
28 June 1969
Charles Smyth and Seymore Pine
inserted themselves into
a Greenwich Village bar
just like I insert that
large star-spangled,
red, white and blue
butt plug. They yelled, “Police,
we’re taking the place!”
But they really meant,
“Police, we are experiencing
homosexual panic,
and the sight of poets
with their large star-spangled,
red, white, and blue butt plugs
are too much for us…
and Mike Pence…
to bear!”

Orgies aren’t my thing,
but last weekend I met
Ivanka Trump and Jared Kushner
on a park bench in
Kalorama
and they had their way with me.
Dog walkers and joggers
watched from behind trees.
Rumsfeld and Tillerson
massaged each other’s taints
while gawking w/ binoculars,
fancy binoculars,
heavy-duty with night vision,
infrared, digital binoculars
issued by the Defense Department
specifically for the purpose of
watching me take on Ivanka
and Jared
on a park bench
in the middle of the day.
It was quite a scene.
Jared removed the butt-plug
and licked it clean.
Ivanka fucked us both,
alternating between assholes
as her giant black strap-on
plunged in and out.
Rumsfeld and Tillerson
really seemed to enjoy the show.
They filled out the comment card
and gave us five-star reviews
on Yelp.
“See the second greatest show
on Earth,” they said.
Of course,
while local cops provided
Kyle Rittenhouse
with that ever-quenching H2O,
Brock Turner and Brett Kavanaugh
were butt-chugging
lite beer across the street
What can he say?
He likes beer!
Brett Kavanaugh, on a bus
full of Frat brothers,
likes beer!

To spite Mike Pence,
he likes beer.