Room 67 • Poetry Hotel
Sixteen Poems / Ken Waldman
THE TRUMP SONNETS
To Donald Trump, from Raleigh
from Trump Sonnets, Volume 1
Donald, the more I read of your strange ways,
the more mythic you become: you're truly
rebranding yourself, making history.
Clumsy villain, you're perfect for these days,
this absurd 21st century maze
of non-stop information. Look at me,
you roar. Or plead, Or, god forbid, decree.
Madman, swindler, con man. The names don't faze
you, Donald. I recall an old college
acquaintance who tossed an empty bottle
at a group, then turned away as surprised
young men found glass shatter by them. Enraged,
the group shouted back. I asked the bottle-
thrower: Why? It wasn't me, he replied.
-------------------------
Donald Trump: Dream #32
from Trump Sonnets, Volume 2
A big stage, me with Batman, Superman,
Popeye, and a trim Miss America.
That was Candy from South Carolina.
Batman called me a real American,
said I was more potent than Superman.
Candy called me Mr. America,
said I should move to South Carolina.
I owned every last thing, not just the land,
but the sea, the sky, the moon, everything
in between, even what people were thinking.
I told Popeye to get to work. Popeye
flexed his muscles. He was a big, strong guy.
The audience was watching me. I waved
to their applause. Superman called me brave.
-------------------------
An Indian
from Trump Sonnets, Volume 3
They come and they go. How they come and go.
Is that the Black man you're talking about?
The orange? Or are you talking about
one of the others? There's so much to do
in this world. We eat, sleep, bathe, work. We go
to market. We go see friends. We go out
walking. We pray. We sometimes face grave doubts.
We study the problems of the day. To
live a good life, we stay so busy here.
I'm old. I don't know what's happening there
on the far ends of the earth. But I do know
they come and they go. How they come and go.
Is that the Black man you're talking about?
The orange? They're men I can live without.
-------------------------
Vladimir Putin: 3:53 pm
from Trump Sonnets, Volume 4
He's the best friend Russia has ever had.
I love my meetings with the man. He's like
putty, a play thing to mold as I like.
At first sight I could tell he was quite mad,
like a very strange puzzle. Good and bad
mean nothing to him. Such a weak psyche—
it's all his name and money. How he likes
to be complimented. You'd think it's sad
how easily he's manipulated.
We think he's the truest American
we've ever met. He's so dedicated
to himself. I tell him I'm a big fan
of his many accomplishments. He thinks
I'm his friend. What's in the soda he drinks?
-------------------------
Trump Sonnets #320
from Trump Sonnets, Volume 5
Tuesday night I dreamed we turned the White House
into a hotel. Soft red lights in the halls.
A half million a night to stay and all
rooms were filled. We built more and had Boy Scouts
on the job, strong young men who didn't doubt
our great mission. I loved the new, thick walls—
we sold the big suite for millions. A small
issue—one of the boys spotted a mouse.
I summoned Mike Pence quick. But then two mice,
twenty, then hundreds. The mice were dying
at high rates. The military police
arrived. The dead mice made it hard trying
to sell rooms. Then, bedbugs. I blamed Mike Pence—
he should have caught this. I also blamed France.
-------------------------
. . . Recent nights
from Trump Sonnets, Volume 6
I've sometimes heard Roy Cohn's voice from the past,
and he talks like he's in my bedroom, right
beside me. Each visit feels like a blast
from forty years back—I welcome his words.
He was always so smart. I'd never heard
any lawyer smarter in the city—
he was smartest in the nation. Nothing
fazed him. He bragged he could do anything
and he was perfectly right. He showed me
I didn't have to do what my daddy
told me. My daddy was really something
with making money from the old buildings.
But I wanted more. Roy was so witty,
sharp, knew everybody, loved big parties,
and introduced me to his many friends.
He showed me where to pile extra money
so no one could find it. And how to spend
like billionaires. He made me feel giddy.
Roy Cohn took such a huge liking to me
probably because I was so handsome
and smart, and loved money just like he did.
We had long meals together and argued
if his Columbia or my Wharton
were better. We knew where we'd both come from
and in some ways we were so alike. We'd
gossip like kids. I learned how people hid
secrets—and clout came from using someone's
past against them, or making something up
they'd have to deny. Roy was so clever
and entertaining. He knew the corrupt
cops and judges. I could listen forever,
what a marvelous talker, his stories
of trials. The threats. He said to always
attack, never admit guilt, and never
ever apologize. I loved his yacht,
his genius fashion sense, and he never
forgot insults. It felt like a fever,
hearing him the other night. . . .
-------------------------
July 17, 2020
from Trump Sonnets, Volume 7
Why doesn't everyone see what I see:
the greatest leader in the history
of our country. I tell you, the Chinese
flu has been exactly like my mighty
TV show. Lots of action. It's made me
the biggest star ever because I see
all the most important details. Funny
how real life has been so much like TV,
and here I am making the Chinese flu
go away. So many tests! The most tests
in the world. Nobody does what I do,
and I keep outdoing myself. The best
president in history, Our country
is the greatest. I've become our country.
-------------------------
Seamstress, Detroit, Michigan
from Trump Sonnets, Volume 8
They don't make it easy for us, do they—
IDs, long lines, standing for hours, every
little thing harder than it needs to be
just so we can vote and have our small say
in how the state and country goes. The way
they close polling stations, I guarantee
it's to make us quit. But life is a tree
we've got to keep climbing, and every day
there's another branch, so we go higher
and higher. I'll keep on with the bother
because that's what I know. There's a big fire
in me lit by my mother and father
and all my brothers and sisters. We won't
be silenced. We can't. We won't. So we vote.
-------------------------
Lara Trump
from Trump Sonnets, Volume 9
I hit the big jackpot with my Eric.
As soon as I first saw him, I just knew,
and it's been better than I dreamed. He's true
to this leggy Southern girl. I'm not slick,
but I know who I am and how to think
on my feet. My happiness continues.
I travel. I speak out. I know how to
connect with regular folks. There no trick
to being me. Sometimes I have to pinch
myself that it's all real. Husband, kids, dogs.
This conservative Southern girl—an inch
from the greatest president. When I jog
or bike, I can't stop wondering what's next,
and then, can you believe it, there's a text
from my sweet husband, or brother-in-law,
or one from my father-in-law's people
asking me to help here or there to pull
something together. There's a built-in draw
to the Trump name, and it's mine. If I saw
this coming at NC State—impossible!
You'd have thought I was some nut case. I'm still
not sure this isn't a dream. But no slaw,
potato salad, or brisket these days.
Steak. Roast beef. The best fresh veggies and fruit.
Of course I hear what everybody says
about my father-in-law. Not to toot
my own horn, but I get to see him close
and personal. A gentlemanly host
each and every time. I deeply respect
what he's done for this great country and what
he'll do when he's back as president. That
is not in doubt, but how can we accept
the other side's legal antics? Expect
payback when we're back in power. I've sat
at events with hypocrite Democrats
and I can't believe the gall. Re-elect
my father-in-law is the one answer.
I worry all the time for my husband,
who's a dear. He's raised money for cancer,
to help children. His big heart extends
everywhere he goes. He's good with money,
and treats me wonderfully. I'm lucky . . .
-------------------------
Jared Kushner
from Trump Sonnets, Volume 9
First, you have to understand I'm a Jew,
a modern Orthodox Jew, and a son.
That might say it all. I think the most fun
I have is managing money. I do
it all—make, spend, borrow, lend. It feels new
every day, the portfolio. I'm one
step ahead, always. It's dedication
and smarts. That's all money is. I want to
make the world a better place for us Jews,
and others too. That's why the Middle East
has my deepest attention, We can't lose
Israel ever. I've made friends in at least
nine Arab countries. They're powerful friends
who know me, and I, them. In the end
that's who I am, a Jew, and dealmaker
in behalf of Jews. The Nobel Peace Prize
might be mine someday when people realize
all I've done. But we won't campaign. Rather,
I stay quiet and do my job ever
mindful of subtleties. Fridays I'm wise
to make it home (that is if no one dies).
There, I'm the gentle husband and father,
light the candles. My father taught me how
to be. He's always been the absolute
best with money. I owe my success now
to him. I always look good—a dark suit,
a plain tie. Harvard honors. NYU
Law. Business. A smart investor. A Jew.
Didn't I bring up I'm a dealmaker—
not just money, but culture, religion,
the big issues of the day. I mention
Israel because that's our truth. Whenever
I doubt, I think Israel, and remember
who I am, what I do. A Jew, a son,
a dealmaker, an investor. I'm one
of millions in the tribe. I've tested her,
my dear wife, who converted so I could
marry her. Three kids! Two boys! How I sing
her praises, Vanky. No, I never would
have made such colossal deals like bringing
Jews and Arabs together without her
incredibly weird daddy. I'd made sure . . .
-------------------------
THE VIRUS
For some, the tension rose by the minute,
anxiety the product of nightmare
multiplied by helplessness and despair.
Nights buried even deeper down in it,
we all knew there was more to the vast pit
of fear where we breathed an inverse of air,
and knelt in prayer that came out anti-prayer.
Oh god, how we carped, and grew intimate
with walls during those early days of change.
Jobless, lonely, our dreary miffed body
self whined: why this, why now, why. We're strange
and new. That pure voice inside us rang oddly
whole as if the old we were no longer.
How to explain just how we've been altered?
-------------------------
TO AN APPRENTICE WRITER
Everything's been written
(just look at the books).
So easy to quit
when every wilderness
has been mapped,
every love story launched,
every household built
(though that hasn't stopped others).
I only mean to say
go on with the work.
Not yet has everything
been written by you.
-------------------------
KEROUACIAN SONNET
Writer or typewriter? Just burn, burn, burn
so the bebop jazz and everything beat
blast like an old Ford from Larimer Street
to Frisco or New York City, then turn
that jalopy around like a sax. Burn,
burn, burn, more beer, weed, books, then meet
Neal, Allen, Gregory, the boys in heat
to take on the big Buddha world and learn
dharma of mountaintop, sky, desert, road.
Bill Burroughs, Gary Snyder, a whole load
of good men. Mexico City. Lowell, Mass.
The clubs, parties, and girls flew by so fast
it was a dream. Sleep? Stars sparkle brighter
without. Dusk to dawn at the typewriter.
-------------------------
TO A TWENTY-YEAR OLD POET
Forty years old, I'm you times two,
and you think I'm pitiful, a prick,
unknown and unread for good reason
because what I write is “the worst.”
Listen, if you're serious about the art,
the usual advice is, first, find something
else to do because poetry is no way
to make a living. Second, read
everything you can, whether you like it
or not. Third, establish a schedule
and write even when you don't want to,
regardless of standards (which doesn't mean
you won't work to make each syllable
sing). Fourth, leave your elders alone,
unless invited, or you risk
being called asshole in print. Fifth,
if you haven't quit after ten, fifteen,
twenty years, then write even more,
and—this is important—watch what happens
to you, young man, in the process.
-------------------------
FIRST NOVELIST
Sad-looking Mississippian begins
with the family tree, ends with a prayer,
in between reads, softly, a most bizarre
Gothic tale: a pair of identical twins
are separated at birth. One named Vin
at age twenty has a sex change, becomes Claire,
moves to New Orleans, falls in love with Bear,
who—you've guessed!—is their lost brother. Within
the first ten pages all this plus a murder/
suicide in some club. The French Quarter
has never seen such a stew. Further
twists include a ménage à trois with Carter,
Vin/Claire and Bear's crazy dwarf whore mom, who
recognizing her kids, goes mad anew . . .
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ANGRY MAN
Impossible to imagine a female,
no matter how angry or desperate,
would have crept across the Radisson lot
at 3 or 4 A.M. with a rock
to smash a passenger side window.
That's man's work, the satisfaction
of a quick shatter of glass,
an otherwise inconspicuous old sedan.
The gamble: inside the small bag
on the front seat, a tablet or camera;
inside the bigger backseat bag,
gadgets and instruments of greater value;
inside the glovebox—a wad of fifties,
or jewelbox of rubies and pearls.
Angry man, you rifled through glovebox
papers: receipts for oil changes,
tire purchases, sundry repairs; you swiped the change
from the beverage holder—dimes, nickels,
pennies totaling less than three bucks; you
tore open the backseat bag to find a mad nest
of bags zippered inside bags; you snatched
that little green satchel on the front seat. Perhaps
you've calculated what you can get
for the eight paperbacks that were within—
the collected works of Ken Waldman.
Angry man, now you're angrier.
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About the Author
Ken Waldman has 11 books, 9 CDs, and since 1995 has made a living by combining Appalachian-style string-band music with original poetry and
Alaska-set storytelling. Much more at www.kenwaldman.com and www.trumpsonnets.com.
Acknowledgements: "To an Apprentice Poet", "Kerouacian Sonnet", "To a Twenty-Year-Old Poet" and "First Novelist"
all will be appearing in The Writing Party, (Mezcalita Press, Wimberley TX, March 2020).
Note: Waldman's poem, “The Virus”, is from his forthcoming book, Trump Sonnets, Volume5: His Early Virus Monologues (Ridgeway Press, 2021).
The poem is also scheduled to appear in Poetry Flash (2020). Learn more at www.trumpsonnets.com.
