Now Leaving Trump's America

In pandemic times, Trump knows not what to do.


Is it that we expect too much of our presidents?


After brief contemplation though, Trump (as a human, the assumption being that he has the capacity for such) pondered our boundaries and the reflexivity of our economy. Trump noted that his precious numbers toppled and touched red every time this uninvited, alien plight crept into a televised conversation. Something had to be done, and Trump knew that he was the caped crusader that could do it. He knew that American sacrifice was never meant to be monetary. His must refer to his original creed – by any means necessary, save the funds and trim the fat. Where is the fat, what is expendable? –he asked.


Our poorest and oldest people.


Trump slipped on his NYSE tie to do what he pretends to do best.


Business.


He went to his roots, to where he earned his street cred. He reflected on the tramps of Wall Street and on their suffering. The best he could do would be to focus on stabilizing and maintaining the stock market. And thank goodness government funds are slick and easy (money trees aplenty) when it comes to our white-collar hoods. He promises an allocation of funds to those who promise to fund his reelection. It is a familiar motion for corporate lords – “I’ll scratch, you scratch” with circular rubs and pats on the back.

And the least Trump could do is remedy any negative, tanking notions. Again, reiterating his own conclusions—that human loss may be inevitable and unavoidable, but financial loss does not have to be.


In a follow-up play, he downplayed the illness (COVID-19) and the casualties that would come to our fellow Americans.


In loss, what matters a few?


And no man should endure something so tarnishing and heinous to their legacy.

Should they?

“Confuse and control” the narrative becomes his tactical response. Only insiders are privy to the revelation of this approach being intentional. Either way—he is good at it.

Afterall, one man alone should not be expected to carry the weight of our demise. Deflection is key. Because, obviously and ultimately…


THIS is not his fault.


Simply put, some people are expendable, and I do not think it would be a stretch to bend the buck in order to explain that information to those lesser, expendable folks. They are already aware that some people do not matter, and perhaps, it is okay if they do not recognize that by “some people” Trump means them.


Is it?


YES.


It is not his fault—


That some people get to buy boats and eat steak, some live-in tin boxes and eat processed molds of food (something mimicking Soylent Green)—we get what we get, and we don’t throw a fit—because fits are his forte.


My dad gave me a peanut loan (one measly mil), and I made it work.


Life ain’t fair, but if you work hard and do the best you can… blah, blah… BULLSHIT… AMERICAN DREAM. And, well, grandma and grandpa, they’ve had a good, loooooong life.

He (the majority of his administration, congressional republicans) and his FOX cronies offered up OLD (literally old) sacrificial, country hams (salty). And by golly, it was worth it for a decent haircut.


Personal interjection—someone should show them a demographic on their voters and viewers.


Twitter began flagging his propaganda. Justice prevails in our supreme court. Global movements have been sparked. A spotlight has been shown on systemic racism and police brutality—and he cannot control what that spotlight reveals.


We are gnawing and chipping away at the illusory claim that Trump created a GREAT AMERICA. His imperfections and flaws are showing. Some of us have seen it all along. We have seen it in his actions and blatant hatred. We have heard it in his fumbling, fourth-grade level speeches. And folks who did not see it before are coming to the realization now that this was not a genuine, legitimate presidency.


In the midst of his collapse, Trump dares to ask—“But where is my redemption?”

AND HERE WE ARE.

Disclaimer – The following is a fiction depiction, an elaborate exaggeration of sorts, a version of stretched truth based in reality, but NOT REAL. It is a completely made-up story about a devil in a blue Brioni suit. TOTALLY FICTION.


****


Today is Trump’s resurrection day—his first rally in months. R. Kelly might pat him on the back and call it “the remix to ignition.”


THIS MOMENT, TODAY, IS HIS.


And I aim to convey it in a visual provocation.


His “silent majority” gathers in Tulsa. Certainly, a misnomer, as they are neither silent nor majority. However, it does appear that they are commonly, quietly complacent in his fantasies of a military state and hate.


Trump loves them because they love him.


Still, the stink of the proletarian, working-class makes him want to vomit his lunchtime chicky nugs. He grimaces and holds those tender, white meat chunks in as he hugs a conveniently nearby American flag. He then raises his new, accosting, red (because red is accosting and aggressive) GAG (Go America GO, only because GET HER DONE was taken) hat and tucks a blank bible between his knees to free-up his hands so that he can toss two solid thumbs up to the pack below, before entering the building.


Trump’s milkshake brings a wild assortment of white boys to the yard, and to the biggest, greatest church in the biggest, best, most tremendous country in the universe—


Some are welcome … but not all … to worship in

… the illustrious, rallying CHURCH OF TRUMP.


Outside there is an enormous, monstrosity of an electronic sign that says, "OPEN FOR BUSINESS."


On stage, in platform heels that add a good two to his height, he begins his unceremonious sermon. He uses his tired, standby speeches to win the crowd, rattling ad nauseum about defective, devil-lovin’ libs… Obama, Hilary. It takes a clever man and rigid folly to be able to verbally operate and recycle words from an 80-word vocabulary.

And boy, is he clever. (?)


With his words, he deems himself a full-on democracy demolition man.

THE BEST.


“The best, most tremendous, bossman… in the… SPACE… on this… TREMENDOUS PLANET.”


Trump sees himself as the epitome of white-male American patriotism. He is masculinity times ten. He is Paul Bunyan with manicured hands, a self-tan, makeup, and coiffed hair designed by aerosol cans. He is a bigly, symbolic manifestation of EVERY AMERICAN.

Who wouldn’t want to be D.J.T.? (Clearly, “the J stands for genius.”)


The room is wooed by his presence. He speaks. “I present to you my friends, Kid Rock, Madame Pence, Lady G, and CEO of my pillows, Mike Lindell who will lead us in a classic American hymnal rendition of ‘Sweet Home Alabama.’” Of course, they change the "Alabama" part to "Oklahoma."


Trump sings, awkwardly, and bounce-creeps along to the song. His downturned lips curl toward his cheeks a little to offer a straight-line smirk. He hasn’t been this happy in some time. Well, basically since, someone unleashed this nasty virus on him.


Not fair!


Trump is back in his safe space though, his own brand of bunker-house—the house he built from his own smart brain with his own two, VERY LARGE, and capable hands (his right, a submissive administration and his left, a willing campaign staff).


He speaks again to his riled-up crowd.

What he offers is a fine, aged repetition of everything he has been saying for years. Then, he offers a gauzy homage to himself which highlights his perceived accomplishments.


Pats on the back, Trump. Good boy.


“Remember, it was me who has geared us toward the remedy (hydroxychloroquine, disinfectant injections, and all). THEY tried to shut us down, but here we are.

‘HERE WE ARE.”


The crowd likes what they hear. There is comfort in this return to routine, and the last few months have been anything but. The last few months of being trapped inside, all shaggy, with our families and homecooked meals HAVE BEEN HELL. These folks are glad to be back out in the open. They are glad to be in HIS house, amongst their people. And they are courageous for coming out and defying the gravity of death. They are bold for choosing to value individualism.


“Fuck you, CORONA!” Someone shouts.


The room roars with approval before going completely silent. In fact, the arena is so silent that you could have heard a commemorative Trump coin drop. Instead, the room heard something else.


The silence is broken with one, memorable erupting cough.


In reflection, they will always remember that cough. But that moment they remain unphased.


The rally noise picks back up with a boisterous cheering for Trump.


“FOUR MORE YEARS.” They cry. But something outside cries louder and drowns out their chanting.


Outside is a movement of people, too long overlooked, too long oppressed, too many killed – “BLACK LIVES MATTER.”


He hears it, but he doesn’t understand it, and he doesn’t want to. His denial and dismissal of this movement has never been discreet. Nor has his hatred toward disabilities, mental illness, LGBTQ, immigrants, women… people.


His instinct moves him toward “ALL LIVES MATTER.” And Trump runs purely on instinct.

He does not understand, even subconsciously, that all lives cannot matter until black lives do. Analytical, critical – that is simply not how he thinks. Listening and questioning are beneath him.


Instead, he remains staunch as a glorious, thunderous divider, the Moses of our people. It is the way. It is his way. Remember, those who love and worship him will receive his love (in the form of false promises) in return. Narcissism has served him well thus far.


Why change now?


But the voices outside grow louder. He cannot stop them. He cannot overtake them. He doesn’t have the octave power or the stamina. Those voices are stifling. He feels muzzled and begins to lose control of the room. There’s a literal shift. He feels it.

Bodies begin pounding through the floor. Bones and decaying flesh break the earth to push through boards and tile. Those who he once decided were unworthy of protection and life are there to spoil his comeback.


He looks around, displeased, as his congregation scatters.


Plastic advertisements lining the walls begin to melt to the floor; screams of panic fill his cathedral. The floor continues to rupture beneath the feat of his MAGA-KAG-GAG clan. The boney fingers of those who have fallen for his ego grab at the hands of those who are desperate to escape.


“Do not turn and run from me!” He commands. “I. AM. GOD.”





Trump raises both hands, clinches his fists, and claims, “VICTORY!” to a diminishing house before he is forced to retreat. He dashes, with a shield of paid protection around him, and climbs into his limo carriage. For a time, he will hunker down, secure, away from this chaos, away from thought, in his palace bunker.


****


In his mind, no matter what happens to you, he has a voice, he has input, he has weight in our world, and he has won.


He is a scheming, schism propagating pretender. He has attempted to place walls between us all. Because he knows that if we are united, we are unstoppable. And that scares the shit out of ol’Trumpling’s tremendous, underhanded ass.


Still, discord (and a failure to do so) will be Trump’s swan song.


We know what is behind Trump’s theatrics. At the end of his crumbling yellow brick road, and deep beneath his protected emerald city, there is no all-knowing, wonderful wizard. Trump is weak. He is a frail old man, curled and shivering on gold tiles. Wisps of hair cling to his veined skull. As he shakes against the cold floor, he lets out a whimper. That is all he can rally as he chokes on his own fear and hate.


More and more folks are seeing through Trump’s gloating and false camaraderie, through his self-reverie and praise, which is why he gets smaller and smaller with every passing day.


Strong leaders take responsibility. Strong leaders acknowledge differences and embrace them. Strong leaders encourage love and unity, because a strong leader knows that our strength resides in those things. A real leader would come out and say, “I hear you, and I want to know what I can do to mend this divide.”


Trump is none of that, and he never will be.


He is a fake leader… a sad excuse for a man… a terrible human…


Donald Trump is an inept, unqualified NOBODY.


It is time for him to go. It is time for major reform and a fundamental implementation of commonsense democracy and equality. Our current systems are broken. The electoral college is an inefficient, unrepresentative joke. Our government is mostly controlled by corporate entities and greed. We live in a country that does not work for everyone, and it is time for that to change. We are ready to support each other... to lift each other. We are ready for the collapse of systemic racism and oppression. We are ready for the eradication of poverty. It is time for us to respect, appreciate, and take care of our home, our earth.


In some weird way, Trump propelled us forward.


We are READY NOW. We are primed to get rid of Donald J. Trump, THE WORST.


Goodbye, Trump. It has not been nice. What we have witnessed thus far in your term was a real shit show, and we grew weary of it… maybe even before it began. Still, for some reason, you got the floor, and after your stumbling stint in office, I hope we never have to see or listen to your abysmal, flagrant non-sense again.


Buzzards are perched on a sign that reads, “Now leaving Trump’s America.”


And to that I say, "PEACE."

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© 2020 Kat Shook