he sits in there,

shirt stained with ketchup 

and god.

pants halfway down,

TV blaring

static 

and praise.

calls himself the chosen one—

chosen by who?

the ghosts in the gold drapes,

the rats in the chandelier,

the echo 

of men with spines?

he screams at portraits

like they owe him rent,

spittle flying at lincoln's canvas face,

finger jabbing washington's painted chest.

lincoln never flinched,

but the fat man swears

he blinked.

says: "you were weak, abe.

you gave them 

too much."

he shits himself

mid-thought, 

mid-sentence,

mid-revolution.

doesn't notice.

the chair knows.

the chair is tired of carrying

all that weight.

outside,

they chant his name,

like he's some prophet

not a bloated clown king

in a sagging crown

spitting tweets

and drooling on executive orders

he can't read.

sometimes at 3 a.m.

when nobody watches

his fingers trace the walls

like he's searching

for an exit

that was never there.

every morning he rises

like a hamberder-bloated sun,

yelling for eggs,

for glory,

for someone to blame.

and every night

he pisses in the rose garden,

says: "they bloom better this way."

a man alone

in a house too big,

with mirrors too kind

and a world too small

to hold his 

goddamn

lies.