by Thomas R. Smith
Just to see and hear him on a screen
hurts the soul. Stench of abuse.
The Abyss hijacks the microphone,
no muting the rant the psychotic
can’t switch off in his head.
The assault on truth is physical:
the viewer’s knees tremble, breath comes
up short. Lies fly out of the mouth
in black streams. They are his children:
father of lies, lord of the flies.
Damaged horror child exposed.
The networks call it a “debate.”
Burroughs called it “naked lunch.”
Yeats called it “rough beast.” I call it
“rape in an abandoned house.”
Thomas R. Smith is a poet and teacher living in River Falls, Wisconsin. He teaches at the Loft Literary Center in Minneapolis. His most recent poetry collection is The Glory (Red Dragonfly Press).
