I saw it but couldn't believe it:
Avuncular Joe fist-bumping MBS.
The body language of his eyes
told me MBS was no Corn Pop.
A chain link length just wouldn't cut it.
Then, I thought the audacious:
What if MBS gave Joe MERS with that bump
to see him freefall into his own twin shining shoes,
his neurons going pop-pop-pop-pop like unrivettings?
And how come Joe BTW hasn't isolated?
I had to isolate. What, am I Black?
Fisting seems like something out of Trump's playbook.
But Trump was a curtsy guy.
Paying Adnan for the yacht.
That Adnan bought with Iran/Contra money.
Which is to say taxpayer dollars.
When Reagan said Keep Them,
did the hostages go back to playing pinochle?
(I read somewhere that Wagner was dressed as a girl as a kid by his Mom.
No wait, that was Nietzsche. Then Elizabeth stole his unfinished Will to Power
and tried to steal his Golden Ball to sell to the Bunker Mentality himself.
But Wagner did go around in pink dressing robes, like Brunhilde, preggers.
And King Ludwig who kept Wagner from debtor's prison
traipsed and tra-la-lahed around the candy Disney castle in his frilling undies,
not because he was gay, but because he was mad you see.)
The Bushes saw them as a Family Guy --
the bin Ladens and the House of Saud --
too big to fail,
like Wall Street.
The Seven Pillars of Wisdom.
El Aurens, years later, toodling around
on a motorcycle named George V
instead of a camel named Joe
on highspeed Dorset roads instead of up and down
the nameless desert David Lean dunes
still mooning on that fateful frostheaved road
about his conversion on the way to Damascus
at the hands and glands of Ottoman Turks
at the end of one Empire and the beginning of another
fin de siecle over the handlebars of George V, Bugger Bognor!
I don't know why we curtsy to, or fist-bump with
these snarling Omar Sharifs riding Donkey Pump Winners,
or invite them to dinner like they were Sydney Poitier
although it would be interesting to hear them assay
on how they planned It, over shawarmas and pilaf and lemon ,
and politely ask how they'd like it if we rocked the Kabaa
and how come the NSA headquarters looks like the Kabaa
and how strange to know, to be told by Snowden
that the NSA acres were once his forebear's slave plantation --
stolen by The Man. Were his leaks a form of payback?
And MBS would answer: They call me Mr. Tibbs
and politely ask for more of Mom's potato salad.
T-Rex Oil. Like Montezuma's Revenge
for a world that has shat the bed
of roses that once meant love.
O the moment's sordid epiphany!