"Uncle's Strange Notion"

I have this notion that #45 one late night soon will bolt out of the WH eyes bugging screaming something about "giant snakes in the walls" with a bunch of Secret Service guys chasing him with nets.
Hopped up on Meth he outruns the heat carjacks a 1956 Desoto then drives to a 7-11 which he robs at gun point taking 20 pounds of Viagra packs of Slim Jims a keg of Diet Pepsi, and the latest issue of "Jugg's".

Still wired he jumps the fence to the railroad tracks hops a freight train headed to Manitoba, and is never seen again. Though like Elvis there are constant sightings.
Especially in Trumpland where he's now worshiped. The "First Church of Trump" becomes the fastest growing cult since Jim Jones shook Teddy Kennedy's hand. 7-11's are ritually robbed all over the pink slip states.

I mean more the usual.

His followers re-enact their gawd's last act as a sign of loyalty, and in hope of going to Jesusland to be with #45. This when the cops blow their brains out for armed robbery. Later President Pence signs an executive order for the mass extermination of Queers Negros etc etc....there's a long list. This of course starts a nuclear civil war.

Meanwhile Otto Smink,...aka the former #45 plays piano in the Redeye. A legal meth, and ganja whorehouse in Bleeding Badger Manitoba. Otto is content in his new life. The only problem the radiation from the genocidal screwy civil war down south...what the hell they give him all the speedballs he can shoot. That was his fav from his "Studio 54" days. Life is good.

( Below the Red States Army of Peoples Vengeance.
They're raising their retro Queer Commie flag over former Washington D.C.)

******************************************************************************

"Who am I that Angels would speak to?"

That's the question I ask. Dreams. Again, and again. Holy dreams. I don't seek them, and even don't want them, but they keep invading my cynical angry self. Some presence is trying to make a point. This happens all the time to many...no matter if they want it or not.
Beware inking down of your dreams. They'll either end up in some future holy scripture, and or as evidence at your trial. This runs through my mind as I try to make a kind of coherent sense of my dreams of late.

If I was still seeing a shrink I think she or he would quickly explain these phantoms away. They always did, but I never bought their crap. No idea where what or who. All I know is it's happening. The details are personal. Each gets a unique message or messages.

Time is not linear, and space warps. The damned thing stretches contracts , and twists. Like origami on crack whiskey, and pastries.

I mean just ask Niels Bohr...he'll give you an earful.

I don't know which is worse. The stupid, and disjointed terrors, and boredom of my regular nightmares. That or this holy crap that won't go away.

Then when it does split I'm empty confused pissed, and want it either back or at least an explanation of the damned intrusions.

"Who am I who are we that Angels would speak to?"