10 Drafts of Reality


(On the course at the Mar

He shoots below par,

His presser insists this is true;

Sips Coke through a straw

In the news clip we saw,

Toadies, too, eschew a strong brew;

Soon he must retreat

Air Force One is his fleet

‘D.C.-bound are the Clown and his crew;

Both sides of the aisle

Beeline with a smile

As Don signs Executives new.

He displays with delight

To his horde on alt.right

“Do you like all the things I can do?”)

The foregoing has weight

Leaks came through the gate

Or so TV anchors construe.

More than this they can’t say

Except, by the way,

Melania seems sweet on J. Tru.


What rich irony

A pen striking down

A republic

The sword in its scabbard

Sharp but subdued;

The pen, meanwhile, sketching

A child’s picture of doom

Orangely smearing

Clear lines at

That border

We dare not cross

Or name.

It’s tempting to call on

The clownocracy

To restore sanity

But it’s otherwise


Shuffling cards on

A board of three-card

Monte and stuffing

Envelopes of money

Into offshore accounts.


Mothership, help us

Beam us aboard

The make-believe foe

Turns out to be real

And we must now

Escape—but too late:

He’s boarding up the House

Heading south,


Beckons beautifully and

The golf is greatly magnified

By his presence

The Clown-in-Chief

Smiles into the camera

(he knows where it’s focused)

No missives of instruction

Disturb the locus of

His distraction

Missiles of destruction

Discussed in the clubroom

Serve only the Clown Chief’s



Orange is now

The color of doom

But here in this gaily-lit room

You’d never know it

Unless you knew something

Which he doesn’t, still . . .

The Chief Clown claims

To know more than

His peeps,

They’re just props

After all

And—where is that camera?

Those newsies are creeps

And liars, tweets he—

You were saying, Chief?

“Kick them out,

All those aliens living

On the public dole

Raping our women

Stealing our soul and

Our Whiteness!@#%!”

Great Tweet, Boss Clown,

Those thumbs we admire

So yuge yet so agile

Working their way toward



Here’s irony, too

His backers sanely pursue

Their own interests

Of which there’s no lack

But you have to wonder,

Don’t you

When they’ll stab him

In the back

When his utility is

Revealed as

Futility in the face

Of revolt.


For the GOP band

He’s the goat

And the beard

A weird configuration

Even for the masters

Of deceit, slight of hand

And what of its





Lunatics, like him

Or just blind

And very, very, very


Ah, they vote

You say

And we didn’t

Not on that day

That wins/loses



We’re in this together:

Madness trumps leathery anger

Trumps feathery indifference:

Bloody mess!



Subtlety is not his game

(Blame reporters for news

Of his disorder)

Though everyone said

Just wait!

Normal will be restored

He’ll be tamed by

The equilibrium of governance

Long arm of the Law,

Strong hand of Courts or

Bureaucracy’s Red Tape

In Which We (T)rust:

Name ONE of these

That lived up to its

Papier-mâché purpose.


Ryan, McConnell

Pelosi and Schumer

Their principled aims

Merely a rumor

“No change, no change!”

Is their call to arms

Keep-away, their game

Duopoly-monopoly is

(Til death do us partily)

The heart of their

Charmed lies.

Never mind that

Our taxes are buying

A Trump-branded hearse

To cart off the dying

Of mercy, of kinship,

Of empathy—worse!

Life, itself, ransomed

To fill his purse and his need

Sacrificed are

Deep-ocean creatures

Beasts of the wild

Birds on the wing

A suckling child—all

Feel the sharp sting

Of extinction


Careless or perverse

In his hands

Things get worse by the day

He signs away or

Locks up or


Everything he touches.


Silence wears stiletto heels

How queer!

Whose silence, you enquire?

Isn’t this your neighborhood

Red, Blue, or In-between?

Goose-stepping heel-to-heel

Right up to the bloody shaft

Keen to please

Those higher powers

Sociopathic and

Not queer but

In their sinister way




Published by: DeanHove

Married, children, grands and great-grands. I have 3 sisters, all living in different states from each other and me. A couple of college degrees. Jobs all involved writing. I've counted them all up, the jobs I've held since I first bussed tables at 15: there were three in my teen years. Since then, I have held 8 full-time jobs, plus one long-term part-time job teaching college writing classes post-retirement. Haved lived in 8 states--I know, it does seem excessive. The relationship between jobs held and states lived in pretty much explains itself. If my cv seems vague/sketchy, it's because my blog is very much a creation of my critical faculties and my imagination--such as they are. If my writing seems "old-fashioned," it's because I learned . . . well, I'm in my 70s, a fact that pretty much explains everything. Except, perhaps, my progressive views. I'm with Elizabeth Cady Stanton, who wrote: "I will not grow conservative with age." I also believe you shouldn't grow stupid with age. I think I live in the past mostly in my dreams, where I'm always late for class or with a work assignment. Which is odd, because I am punctual to a fault and cannot even imagine how people can procrastinate. Those two things aside, I have few virtues.

1 Comment

One thought on “10 Drafts of Reality”

  1. Loved this. I had to chuckle about the Justin Trudeau bit. I can imagine what is going through her head at the thought of being with the beast, but she made her bargain with someone and her own bed, so I find it hard to sympathize.


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