He’s everywhere.
I turn on the TV.
He’s there.
I slide on my phone.
He’s there.
I walk to the store to buy milk.
He’s there. On the cover of a newspaper.
The paper might be in Thai, Dutch, or Swahili, but it’s his picture.
It’s him again.
He’s there.
When I visit my relatives.
He’s there.
In conversation. In spirit.
His image looming large in shouting matches, outbursts, and the hurt of butts.
The turkey second fiddle to counterattacks, smoking crack, and telepathy at the table.
The West was burning. And he was there. He was a penis shooting fireballs.
He lives inside us all. He’s the bogeyman. He’s death. He’s Hitler and Stalin combined. He’s Jesus and Genghis Khan.
He’s 20 feet tall. He’s a Lilliputian. He’s made of steel and has the blood of a snake. His phone is a Ouija board.
He’s porn. He’s Q. He’s a burning Koran.
He’s you. He’s me. He’s our virus and our cure.
He’s pure. He’s a liberator and a slaveholder.
He’s wearing a wedding gown and raping your mother in a dressing room.
He’s handfuls of grab ass. He’s phenomenal, flippant, and flowery.
He’s fingering your cute little 10-year-old sister in extraordinary ways we don’t quite understand.
He’s everything. He’s nothing.
He’s mentally retarded.
He’s a savant.
He’s your magical honkey and special type of nigger.
He’s bigger than an IQ of 200. He’s a dead Redskin strangling a Jew.
He’s you, alive, a Rabbi jumping on a trampoline, holding a chainsaw.
He’s a dead student in a school shooting.
He’s Chauncey Gardner and Hulk Hogan’s lovechild.
He’s a fallen statue in a riot.
He’s golfing in a hurricane.
He’s a graveyard party’s disco dances.
He’s diamond glint eyelashes, a lipstick love whore.
He’s a messiah to the poor.
He’s Paul Revere in a Porsche, running down 6-year-old kids.
He’s cool, bombing abortion clinics and miming a meme in a cage.
He’s outraged, a prayer rug made of toothbrushes.
He’s Rambo, a bazooka rectal exam.
He’s Kobe Bryant’s helicopter pilot.
He killed JonBenet Ramsey.
He stole and shot the Lindberg baby from a catapult.
He is the last Romanov.
He has the cure for cancer in his sperm.
He’s everything.
He’s here. He’s there.
He’s everywhere.
He’s Santa Claus in a maternity ward, plotting a mass shooting spree.
He’s free, shitting in a sorority house, pursuing happiness, like Ted Bundy.
He’s in a Catholic church, doing aerobics in front of a goose.
A GOOSE.
He’s sent by God. Because he is God.
He’s
our
superhero rapist.