In honour(?) of POTUS’ unscripted interview….
Here is the thing: there are facts you don’t know
you don’t know. I know. I’ll say what fake news
won’t: this event just happened, the way fire
—on a torch, on a cross—just happens.
Blood happens. Bullets happen. A body lies
too long on asphalt, on soil, maybe is left
behind when a car turns right, left
—look. That’s what you call sides. I know
people, good people, on both, and sick media lies
can’t bring down the moral plane the news
would have you think veers left. It just so happens
smoke rises only where there’s been a fire
and what I know is I would, I would personally fire
any so-called ‘reporter’ who somehow left
out the clubs clutched in thug hands. Look what happens
when these reporters—unlike me—don’t know
how to see the facts for what they are. News
flash: fantastic young women die, and truth lies
in Twitter—I think it was Twitter—look, truth lies
in the mother who through tears blameless as fire
messaged me to say that what I said was beautiful. The news
won’t tell you what’s positive: that she, the mother, left
me a message, she was so grateful. See? Now you know.
Questions? What? McCain? Fuck him. He changed his mind. It happens
in the old, sometimes. Anyway, Walmart’s on my side. What happens
when I bring in business is I fix the inner cities because I create jobs left
and right and races relate best when all of them know
their place: to let white men with permits chant slurs, set fire
to lives they know don’t matter. Don’t they? Whatever. Liberal lies
smear good people and that’s why there’s no news
coverage of the good I do, no mention on the evening news
that men gathered to protect a statue, to show what happens
when political correctness tries to tear truth down. What’s left
if we let them—wait. Lee lost the war? Sick. Sad. His lies
have no place in our great nation. Excuse me. Maybe I’ll fire
some nukes at North Korea, clear my head. You know
what happens in golf? Bad lies,
and winners grab what’s left. Tell the news
that I brought it. I brought it. I am on fire.
Jude Ellison is a poet, a nonbinary queer and an immigrant whose writing explores collisions: the urban and the wild, the monolith and the marginal, the self and the story. Past publishing credits include Hayden’s Ferry Review, Tarpaulin Sky and MAYDAY. Jude lives in Melbourne with two partners, one son and three cats.