Wrong Number

September 24, 2016

time-machine
I’ve felt I’ve been in a fog lately but just realized the problem was I’d actually time-jumped to 2020 instead — 2020 where vision is especially clear even if too late.

What snapped me out of it was a message from a friend pointing out that I’d mis-dated a poem I posted, one I’d written a year ago (this one). Its date read 4/19/20. I was about to fix it when I had a odd sense of having just been there, four years from now, in 2020. So I wrote this to my friend, ML:

ML,

To 2020 and back in two-shakes of a Trump’s tale, thanks for the heads up on the date.

Yes, I was there, and let me tell you, you think it’s getting bad here? You have no idea, brothers are still killing brothers there, but with much less baggage of guilt or regret. And it gets great ratings.

It’s the Jerry Springer Show meets The Apprentice meets The Walking Dead but really, really live. And very, very chaotic no one knows who to trust. Civilians with many, many guns, police with many, many guns and tasers and pepper spray. Everywhere you turn it’s Trump Trump Trump (kind of like marching booties thudding), believe me. 

Ted Cruz is Chief Justice, Rick Santorum’s head of the Department of Religion, Sarah Palin’s running the Department of Dumb-down, Anne Coulter’s The Head Forked-Tongue of the Federal Propaganda Agency, David Duke’s the Imperial Wizard of the Department of Whiteness, Vladimir Putin is Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Stiffs (he be running the military while moonlighting from his regular job as Supreme Dick-taker of Russia), and the Department of Bullshit is being personally overseen, overwritten and overwrought by the Big Emperor His-self whose comb-over, nested in very very small hands, is the central motif of the official Seal of the Monarch (formerly the presidential seal). 

But many, many, many people (many experts I know tell me) are blissfully content not having to think about anything except being very, very careful of what they say and even verier and verier of what they think given the universal issue of thinking caps everyone must wear —a new technology that automatically Instant Messages all thoughts to the Directors of Control run jointly by Rudy Giulliani and Chris “Shut-up” Christie who both still live in the Cloud —a very, very dark one. 

Well, gotta go. I’d stay, but I only came back to fix the date-typo of my poem (thanks again, ML, for the heads up). I have to get back to see if I can undo the done with a new poem. 

Ha! 

Everyone’s delusional in 2020. It’s catching.

 

Jim
2016, or 2020 …whatever.

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