John Ernest

The Orange Toddler Poems, The Fourth Year John Ernest

It became a kind of game-trying to identify the new low for Trump and stating confidently that there was no way he or anyone else could go any lower. Trump apparently took this as a challenge. By the end of his fourth year, hundreds of thousands of Americans were dead, the president of the United States had incited an insurrection, and many politicians and media figures had stripped themselves of whatever remaining vestige of dignity or character they might once have claimed. Or, as Trump put it, he won, and by a lot. But the fight was not over, guided by a lone poet standing strong at the edges of the country that was once America, a lone figure rising from the shadows, deploying bad poems daily in a struggle for America's soul that many people are saying is the last great movie that Clint Eastwood never made. You can read those poems and follow that great battle. They're in this book, but the battle is in your heart. So buy the book, take some antacids, and settle in to a day-by-day review of Trump's last year in office. Turns out he lost, and by a lot. These poems prove it.