I was caught by a large thunderstorm and
so it was upon this midnight dreary
I ran wet and weary to a large white house.
It extended up into the night as though upon
Bald Mountain whose stormy heights were
circled by five hundred thirty-five flying demons
most grand and old with huge jowls and glaring eyes.
Tap, tap, tapping – I rapped on the door and
was admitted by a young yet balding advisor
and ushered into a rocky horror show of staffers
singing oaths of loyalty to an odd god beyond.
We walked through labyrinthine halls lined by
emptied rooms and abandoned computers
the floors littered by shredded documents
of previous staffers now no longer named.
From a passage guarded by foreign orderlies
we entered into an oval-shaped office
over which was a reading to my dismay:
Abandon all hope ye who enter here.
There I saw walls glistening with gold and
an orange king gorilla of long blond hair
escaped from the island of Manhattan
aided by those from the street of Wall.
He had no hands and a circular mouth
and proclaimed with loud atomic breath:
My oration is to make great the nation;
I rule as the best over the cuckoo’s nest.
I ran through the nearest exit of the house
barely escaping into the outside storm and
running toward dawn’s first sign of blue
away from the horror on Pennsylvania Avenue.
© Jim Hanson
Jim Hanson is a retired Senior Researcher at Southern Illinois University-Carbondale, He is a sociologist and lay-ordinated Zen Buddhist. He is a member of the St. Louis Poetry Center.