A.H. Scott: What Happened to Trump’s Brain?

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Tony_Ward_early_work_anatomy_lesson_Temple_medical_school_student_examining_brain_orange_crush

What Happened to Trump’s Brain?

 

 

Poetry by A.H. Scott, Copyright 2017

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Photography by Tony Ward, Copyright 1977

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ORANGE CRUSH

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He paces with anxiety and mutters to himself alone

Taste for strawberries isn’t on his mind, as two scoops of ice cream or an appetite for meatloaf may give a bit of solace to him in this historic home

Watched in silence are those who dwelled here before he did

Milhous whispers, “Your reputation is on the fast track of outdoing me, kid”

Andrew chuckles, “You don’t even know I was dead before the war began”

Johnson chimes in, “I came up with sounder visions when I was sitting on the can”

JFK dismissively whistles, “Your level of tact can only fill a thimble”

Ronald wisely quips, “Bonzo had more sense than you. And, my personality was ever more nimble”

Clinton says in his Southern drawl, “Call me what you will, but my hands ain’t small”

W. sighs, “So, you wanted to toss dirt on my days in office. Well, my, my, my”

Man who mutters and paces places hands over ears

He makes it clear that these voices isn’t what he wants to hear

Rush of wind blows through the Oval Office doors, as he looks over and sees the man who lived there a few months before

He rubs his eyes and screams, “No, it can’t be you!”

Man from Illinois via Hawaii isn’t standing there in the flesh

Yet, his spirit of brotherhood filled this place of lost happiness

Mutterer grumbles this man’s name like a curse every time it is spoken from his bitter lip, “Oh, so now it’s you. So, what’s your smart-ass quip?”

A voice filled the air and said ever so soberly, “This job ain’t no joke. This is the White House and not some luncheonette casually selling Pepsi or Coke”

Yet, the resident who is now President decided to be a carbonation of resentment

Orange Crush isn’t refreshment

Orange Crush is a man without sanity or attachment

Unlinked from the truth that stares him in the face

Scaffolding of his psyche has vanished without a trace

Signposts of the past can be seen as history to some

Yet, history is alive in the marrow of democracy of today and all the tomorrows to come

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About The Author: A.H. Scott is a poet based in New York City and frequent contributor to Tony Ward Studio. To read additional articles by A. H. Scott, go herehttp://tonywarderotica.com/h-scott-kiss/

 

This entry was posted in Art, Blog, Early Work, Politics.

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