endless expanse of light-grey hamster-fur fog,

lights flash, illuminating the puffy tunnel of flesh that encases Antonin Scalia’s coffin

the not-yet-rotting corpse of the Supreme Court Justice

who exhales breathily, releasing a marijuana-flavored haze of legitimate homophobia

(not just insecurity over his own fragile, nonexistent masculinity, but a true hatred).

his cracked eyeglasses flash with light from passing automobiles as the hearse approaches the Capitol building

mister Scalia, are you going to hell?

i answer my own question

Edmund Muskie cuts a line on the Justice’s protruding stomach—

Muskie, who takes too much ibogaine and sees wolves everywhere

an idiot by all regards, he was on his way to the presidency

he allowed the proletariat to have their way with him,

he got fucked by the commies for sure—a manhunt—

a blind man stares aggressively ahead,

paunchy, widow’s peaked, a sweaty upper lip,

he is unaware of his treason

he is unaware of poll numbers whatsoever

dead men don’t really give a damn about polls anyway