billionaires shall not pass
their golden genes,
their black card wombs,
their trust-fund tumors.
only knowledge may slip through,
and even then,
only if stamped
by the ministry of the forgetting.

no more trumps,
this name,
now,
is just a verb
for "to fail upward into jail."

no more jared, and front waters
blood sheds.
his rat-eyed smirk
sliced off with a tax-code scalpel.
many slices lead always to slaughters.

no more ivanka.
her manhattan frost
melted down
to fill potholes
from flint in michigan to cherie--lanka of
exhausted poor faces producing low-cost
evanka frost.

another "irs " drones hum at midnight,
mainly saturday nights,
sometimes, in the morning,
checking sperm counts against stock portfolios.
the fed’s surgeons stand ready,
their gloves sticky
with pre-emptive vasectomies.
it is tru some surgeon are butchers.

what stays?
a library card in a dead man’s name.
a patent number on a bomb that won’t detonate.
a single tweet left uncensored:
"i wish i’d bought bitcoin."
so,
if one is a billionaire,
a multi portfolio millionaire,
or an ambitious member of a dynasty,
and aiming to be a neuron,
in the political machinery,
please sign the date for vasectomy.
and sign here, here, and here.
otherwise
rihanna,
"work, work, work"
"dirt, dirt, dirt, dirt, dirt."
"hurt, hurt, hurt, hurting."
"dry me ah!"