He gained fame with assassin’s slander,
attempting to rob the cradle
with a birth certificate
in order to erase the man he envied
from exalted existence.
His platform had always been
the coffin of the American Dream,
and when his predecessor was interred
he went graverobbing with a silver spoon,
looking for gold with which to gild his rotund body,
knowing his choir could not tell the difference
between the Golden Calf and the exhumed Christ.
The golden cross
laying upon your chest
with its chain and inscriptions,
shielding your heart with
Christ’s image, but
rid yourself of such trappings
and keep golden instead your heart
in likeness to Christ’s, or else
forever hide your bloodless beat
beneath a golden forgery of faith.
His voice was as intoxicating
and just as flammable,
catching among the
white neighborhoods like a
as the suburbanites echoed
his firewater sentiments
behind closed doors, and then
in open, unabashed daylight.
The flammable rotgut
flowed and burned in the
Beware the white dog’s howl.