The first one hundred days are almost done;
A period of time considered huge
For seeing how the president will run.
Now Donald scrambles; he must show that through
The messy start he’s had, to say the least,
He’ll have done something good.  Something.  Anything!
“Uh, hey, Jeff.  I don’t mean to halt your feast,
But I think we’ve got an issue here. See,
I want to brag about my work in these
One hundred days, but I have not done much.
I need that wall right now! I beg you please
To make up some petty distraction, such
that it will just divert them ’till week’s end:
Offend some island people, for your friend?”


The choral sound of jungles doesn’t pulse
On common notions of the purest song,
No reef weaves through white crags its neon throng,
And all clear minds host clashing impulses.
I’ve been to Hawaii. It’s half Asian.
The past there is the same as everywhere
But for ships’ desertion of the human fair
From canoes, then planes—it’s nowhere’s haven.
Much these invasions cost, but also left
An island’s fact, of skins, and fruit, and surf,
A letting-be, a fighting-back, a law
That speaks to all who have arrived, non-native,
And naturalized. The psychic veil’s a curse
Of pretend homelands. It wasn’t real, brah.