Sculpted on the dreams of a silver spooned boy
Forged in the hallways of opulence and ease
He put the pomp in pompadour
Traded pomade for hair spray
Built a coiffure to cover his skin head
shade his shifty eyes,
Homage to the hoody boys of the ‘50s,
But back rooms and board rooms
Be his back streets and card rooms
A greaser of palms, not petty grift, not of need
Money making money making money making money.
Millions love our boisterous belligerent ex-bully in chief,
From the streets of Virginia to ranches out west
Thousands gear up to carry the guns he points,
White men taste the blood lust of
Oklahoma City, Charlottesville, Pittsburg,
boom, crash, rat-a-tat-tat,
Bullets to hold off the onslaught of history,
Afraid to be like me, the only white guy
on the Fifty Four bus to Balboa BART,
While the gold tressed awning keeps
the sun off a raccoon goggled tan,
His vision goes no further than the end
of his marvelous marquee, sprayed stiff canopy
sharp, slicing through reason, challenging democracy.
Corey Weinstein’s poetry has been published in Vistas and Byways, The New Verse News, Forum (City College of San Francisco), California State Poetry Society, Abandoned Mineand Jewish Currents, and he wrote and performed a singspiel called Erased: Babi Yar, the SS and Me. He is an advocate for prisoner rights and founded California Prison Focus, and he led the American Public Health Association’s Prison Committee for many years. In his free time, he plays the clarinet in a local jazz band, his synagogue choir and woodwind ensembles.
