I’ve courted the court of imperial justice.
A pixie dust composition creates the complexion
of this black robed back room beauty; clustered.
Boiled to the brim, a swine slew soup--
of people pressured to painstakingly perform
the great duty for this Great Gatsby glutton
who takes out our preconceptions, pulls
from our bellies the preconceived babies
of the silver specked future--
those who could never think as we do,
with our whirl wind and water based fury.
For we will cry out to these combatant--
kids; sugar-toes no knows. Sweet
sunshine taps on our stardust doors
into heaven’s underground, where I live,
breathing in an angelic smog while my frog
lungs croak, amidst the white wigged cloaks,
in the back alley drama that’s set behind
my court of imperial justice, courted--
this system of checks and sex always
enamored with me, the court of three
branches: executive, law and love government.
I got it plastered and took it home with me,
but late in the night it did not scream
for the separation of church and state. No!
Rather, this presidential ladylove
rolled her eyes back, as I pinned her
to the headboard crying loud
“Freedom!”