The Gambler

Behold:
the self-proclaimed “stable” genius
which might reason him
good at the horse race,
yet he bet and lost money
at his own casino, rigging the
game
at a cost to himself.
The trump card
always comes up short
and always seems to lose
by winning.
It is the Artifice
of the Deal.
Hemline theory would indicate
that the economy is on the rise,
but the shortest hemline
is at a bikini contest
which he presided over
in Russia,
and, sure enough, the bikini lines
were lucrative for him, garnering him
mobs of money,
Killer Green Backs,
and all in exchange for
whatever was left of his soul.
He never drinks,
but he takes a stiff shot of
Vodka
to embolden his small
hand,
turning up Jesters
at a game of Poker
and marveling at the shotglass
as he pushes the chip
on his shoulder
forward—
marveling
marveling
marveling at the shotglass
as he realizes
that it is a hole in hand,
like debt,
an abstract made manifest,
and so easily shattered,
unlike his deepening hole.
Yet, his worth
is still on the rise
like an airline
bedecked with golden countertops,
stalling in free-fall
back to earth.
A billionaire
owing billions,
he knows the worth of
someone else’s money.
Parading the apoplectic corpse around
of a political rival
as a boogeywoman,
he panders to his
investors,
promising to save America
from the “Elites”
and the illegal immigrants
that make their Wal Mart foods so cheap.
Yet, even while obsessed with
other people’s status
his supporters never wonder about his own, and
they empathize with him because
in their minds
they are as deluded as him,
thinking, as he does, that they will all be
rich again someday
even as they pull the lever
on a toilet slot machine,
flushing other people’s hopes down the drain
to spite the American Dream
they supposedly adore.
Their movement is an operation
of malice, envy, jealousy,
motivated by
hating “East Coast Elites”
even as they elect one to office,
praising him for the
arrogance
which patronizes them
as “patriots”.
Unstoppable force
meet immovable
narcissism.
Listen:
he is BIG LEAGUE,
bigly,
and you are all so minor,
especially you miners.
He must want to be minted
in gold,
for his face is stamped
with faux gold,
his boggling eyes
puffily underline in black bruises
from a bed beset with a
Stormy night-mare,
the eyefuls he bought
still causing him trauma.
He says climate change is not
manmade,
but his bloviating denials
add another cubic ton
to the atmosphere,
and the warming waters are rising.
Whether it is a
blue wave
or a
red wave
or it is just a languidly indifferent
wash,
there is no doubt
that the Gambler is drowning
in the Vodka depths of debt,
and, as any drowning person,
he will drag whomever
or whatever
he can grab
down with him.
Perhaps if we told him
the Gobi Desert was made of
gold dust
he would get lost there awhile,
reveling in the greatest
mirage
of wealth
since
looking in a mirror.

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