In Memory of George W. Bush, our 41st President
Every car bomb splatters a bit more debris upon one of his
finely tailored suits
Children bombed taking candy from GIs fall as dust, coating
his distinguished hair
He smothers slowly under the weight of the flags that drape
each returning body
Blood drips from every word of all the speeches that he
reads…but does not write
His continuing resolve only adds another to all the other
long-dried layers of blood
It stains his clean white shirts and it spatters upon his
conservative ties from somewhere
He hears the sucking sound it makes beneath the soles of his
wing-tipped shoes
He sees it smeared on the seats of the limos in which he is
whisked in security
He cannot wash off the blood of those killed by car bombs at
the markets
There is no petroleum flowing to use like some fine and
purifying lotion
Blood flows straight from Baghdad out his shower in a
steaming dark red mist
His personal savior smiles faintly, pointing out the blood
stains on his own wrists
During interviews he is peppered with a congealing spray of
blood upon his makeup
His sunsets will all be blood red until the far-off day when
he finally passes on
Every soldier crippled by an IED bleeds out upon his sweaty
presidential bed sheets
He coughs bloody foam after nights spent in the dreams of
tortured citizens
On his visits the foreigners see it gush from his mouth,
nose, ears and eyes
It stains his boxers and this febrile flow cannot be
quenched by any Maxi pad
It oozes squeakily out of his running shoes with every step
he jogs
The kitchen floor down at the ranch is always a mess of
bloody footprints
He has a pink-tinged urine and there is blood in his stool
He is splashed by each and every one of the hundreds killed
every day
He signs the checks for the killing with ink made from the
blood of children
The White House pool is filled with the fresh blood of
virgin Muslim women
There are blood stains on the white table cloths at all of
his catered meals
As he speaks he emits a fine red aerosol that air brushes
his hand-picked listeners
He sponges up his bloody guilt with his now-soaked but still
fatal pride
Casually wiping his neck he feels something warm and wet
upon his fingertips
His small glass of wine turns into blood upon passing his
smirking lips
His handlers ignore the bloody mess like they did the
emperor’s new clothes
As he speaks to the children they wonder at the pool
congealing at his feet
Though there is blood everywhere, he searches in vain for
the source
He dreams his veins are emptying into dirt and dust under a
hot desert sun
He awakens in the ongoing nightmare of the monstrosity of
his actions
The blood on his hands will only disappear with the
bleaching of his bones
He coughs up fat clots with phlegm-soaked nuclei of inhaled
desert sands
He awakes in the night with the guilty pain of a bleeding
ulcer
His sweaty clasp leaves an iron-smelling residue upon his
allies hands
leaning over a GI’s bed his dripping blood spreads tiny
circles on the sheets
Pink bubbles gurgle from his lips as he pursues the fleeing
refugees
His anger and frustration pound in his head and brings a
pressure to his eyes
As he is driven by, it appears that motorists pump blood
into their SUVS
They have installed a drain in the Situation Room for him
and his advisors
Even at the most joyful events he always feels it squishing
inside his pants
There is no more escape in scripture and his suckups are far
too transparent
He clasps his hands together in prayer and feels the dried
layers of other’s blood
Lies and rationalizations no longer hold back the dike of
innocent plasma
He smudges a sobbing mother’s flag saying her son’s loss
must not be in vain
There is no time for other issues in the struggle against
overwhelming guilt
So blood from forgotten and ignored sources comes leaking
under all the doors
You would pity him except he chose to take the role, live
and in full color
Every morning squishy liberal parasites have re-opened all
his old wounds
His smirk has disappeared and his face grown gaunt and thin
and haunted
It is a mighty effort to ignore the death and suffering that
he has foolishly unleashed
We must be reminded of his humanity when all we can see is
his bloody mess
His political capital long ago soaked up all the guilty
blood that it could hold
Now all of our passports are printed in blood so we cannot
be mistaken
Dizzy from loss of blood he orders more military monies to
try and staunch the flow
His wife and children just try to act like everything is
really just quite peachy
Other’s blood must flow from his veins due to the infinite
quantity of his pride
Now wounded and dangerous they backbite savagely to spread
around the guilt
Lighting the White House Christmas tree he notes bloody
trails in the snow
The favorite passages in his old bible are smeared with a
mingling of bloods
At times he prays he might just be waking up, just before he
began the war
It cannot be ignored yet he cannot think about it, anymore
The festering wound to his tumorous pride hurts with every
movement
Yet strangely, he only calls for fresh blood to wash away
the old and dried
More killing faster must be the answer to cleaning up this
mess
