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President of the World

dreamed 2009/10/19 by Wayan
I dream a Congolese novelist cooks
up a what-if political knot:
at last the House of Saud is caught
funneling billions to murderous crooks.
Mobs rush their mansion walls;
Even the Bushes won't answer calls.

Now who'll run Arabia? Egyptians rush in,
enthusiastically swearing they're twin
brothers, always been. Hubris, just a whiff!

The inland tribes (who scorn this Earth
for scorching reason: Arabia is Hell)
see Cairene vultures as they are,
and wage a sullen guerrilla war.

Arabia's neighbors may, appalled,
each take a seething pizzaslice.
Beware of fingerscald!

So in the book, modern and fairly sane
coastal majorities rule each wedge;
Wahhabi goatherder gun-nuts no more
get to kick around the civil edge.

Sure, those desert rats'll loathe the shore
and cook up plots of guerilla war,
but such shard-nations might just endure
UN troops in their hinterlands, where no
civilized cityfolk are mad enough to go.
The House of Saud would never have put
needed blue cops in its seething gut.

Poison stew. But any mess, despite
borders toddler-scrawled, could beat
that clique of hoods who so discreet-
ly hired fascist theocrats. Saud farewell!

Enjoy your Princely House in hell.

Dream image by Wayan: sketchmap showing Arabia as it might be carved up after the Saudis flee, next to a Congo already carved up by its neighbors.
But just the dream of a novelist!
I look up from his book, to find I sit
on a curb downtown, still just a bit
in shock at the news, as friends inquire

"Wayan, how are you takin' it?"
Not well. I was just tapped to be
world president. (I didn't run
for office of course--what mad

ideas old mass democracy had! And won
Ambitious blatherskites galore.)
I'm drafted for a year, no more
of course--to limit how much I harm.

How am I? Well, all I've done so far
is obsessively clean my nails. They are
quite grubby, but I better scour
profounder soul-crevasses, if I hope

to rightly use my year in power.
Think back to Obama, our Founding Woop.
Can I swipe multicultural roots?
No, too late to fix that. And no time

for a race change either. But perhaps
I can get a quick saintliness transplant!
And with that hint that I'm a moral snake...
glum on my curb, I unimpeachably wake.

Sketch of a dream by Wayan: I sit glumly on a streetcorner curb, cleaning my nails. A globe sits by me.


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