From the Horse’s Mouth

I never thought I’d see a president
sermonizing from a phone—
a burning bush of blue light,
gospel gnashed into tweets.

They call it Truth,
but it scrolls like static—
an altar of algorithms
where my kin kneel daily.

You want it from the horse’s mouth?
Here:
teeth blooded from the bit,
tongue thick with slogans,
lips twitching
at the flick of a signal.

You call it prophecy.
I call it programming.

They worship the horse
as if the beast were holy—
mane of golden yarn,
eyes like searchlights scanning sin.

But it lies down in velvet stalls,
dines on praise and gall,
shits out scripture,
and calls it news.

On the Fourth, they bow their heads—
not in prayer, but allegiance—
phones raised like flags,
waiting for the next commandment.

I pass the charred ribs, unheard,
while their eyes stay locked
on a face in the glow,
a prophet in pixels.

I’ll say, “He’s in disguise,”
and they’ll laugh,
mouths full of red meat and revelation,
vision drunk on backlit dogma.

Now I sleep in a house
where the walls scream in Fox-tongue,
where facts are heresies,
and love means loyalty to the feed.

You want it raw?
It’s raw:

That horse was raised in a stable
draped with flags and falsehood,
groomed on grievance,
fed on fear,
trained to circle the same track
until the crowd confuses
spectacle for truth.

And still they say,
“From the horse’s mouth—only the truth.”

But the source is sewage.
It shines because
you keep polishing it
with your disbelief in disbelief.

I know that horse—
performed in a circus tent
lined with mirrors and rot.
And it would trample God
just to hear itself speak.

Art by Amy Kosina <https://www.instagram.com/amy.k.art/>