The joke was stupid,
but the punchline hit like lightning
through a church steeple.
Better than Viagra.
Better than anything
sold behind a pharmacy counter
or whispered across a parking lot at midnight.
For one glorious second,
the universe coughed up a win.
Now every day arrives wearing yesterday’s clothes.
The clocks run backward.
The headlines molt and grow the same diseased feathers.
We’re trapped in a carnival ride
operated by drunk historians.
Who’s on first?
What’s on third?
Who burned down the rulebook?
Who replaced it with a coloring book and a flamethrower?
The air tastes like pennies,
old grievances,
and freshly laundered lies.
Racism hangs over everything
like a dead possum in the attic—
bloated,
stinking,
impossible to ignore.
I’d just like to breathe
without inhaling someone else’s delusion.
I want the tirade to end.
I want the fever to break.
I want normal to stumble back through the door
looking rough,
missing a shoe,
but alive.
Instead, we’re all waiting for Season Three.
Not a polite season.
Not a prestige-drama season.
House of the Dragon season.
Dragon fire turning tyrants into barbecue.
Crowns melting into puddles.
Egos scattered across the countryside
like loose teeth after a bar fight.
Heads roasted.
Limbs crushed.
Entrails decorating the landscape
with all the subtlety of modern politics.
Let the whole miserable circus
reach its final act.
Then sweep up the ashes.
Strike up the band.
And for the love of God,
let me dance.
Corney Press 