On Donald Trump, Joel Osteen and Prosperity Poetry

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Just dropped my son off at Kita. I now have 4 hours to write about whatever comes to my mind. I don’t think today is a poetry day. I was brainstorming for a topic last night but couldn’t think of anything. How is that even possible? I have forty-six years of lifetime to work with, and not one two-minute event worth writing about could be summoned.

I had nothing.

I want to write more about Berlin. After spending the last two and a half years writing a novel about Florida people and what led up to my coming here, I am looking forward to putting together a book of poems and short stories or little vignettes about this place and my experiences here.

But again, last night, nothing.

And this morning I come home only to find out Joel Osteen, the prosperity preacher, just told his parishioners that Hurricane Harvey happened because God was testing them. Joel Osteen who didn’t want to let any of the displaced victims into his stadium-sized megachurch at first. Joel Osteen, with his net worth over $50,000,000, and his 17,000 square foot River Oaks mansion that has six bedrooms, six bathrooms, three elevators, five wood-burning fireplaces, a one-bedroom guest house and pool house. I’m not even going to bother stating the obvious. Anyone with 2 molecules of intellect to rub together can see he’s oxymoron to the New Testament and a flimflamming pantywaist of the first order. But unfortunately in America most don’t have 2 molecules. Most – and I say this with much love for the millions of wonderful exceptions – most are dumb, superficial, and tend to judge a man by what he has rather than who he is, and that’s why so many of Osteen’s ilk thrive. To figure out who a person is takes too much calculus. Much easier to hang a verdict on him based on his vacuum cleaner, or patio set, or the handlebar grips on his motorcycle, etc. etc.

Donald Trump became president, more or less, because he had the best, most gaudy and expensive stuff. He even took it so far as to have a gold-plated toilet in his Trump Tower apartment. To many this meant he was a genius. Maybe even a god because gods have golden thrones. And it wasn’t just the Republicans fault that a monster like him floated to the top. There were plenty of Liberals who saw nothing at all wrong with him until he took to the political stage. They knew exactly what he was like, but kept watching The Apprentice, and kept cheering for him on Letterman, Howard Stern, etc., and kept buying into the repugnant Trump brand.

They wanted a golden toilet too, let’s face it.

Anyway, I’m going to cut this discourse off here. I still have a few hours to go. I am going to pour myself another cup of coffee and start thinking about poetry. Maybe I do have something in me after all. Or maybe I’ll just sit here thinking about how I can make money with it.

M.P. Powers, the Prosperity Poet.

It does have a certain tonal quality to it. A perfect match to the five wood-burning fireplaces, three elevators, pool house & so forth I’m picturing for myself.

Yes…

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