On the way to minor asteroids
waxing a million turtles all the way
down to Jupiter, a red dust storm
running new rivers, sprouting 
floating gardens and gigawhales
swimming in seas of oxygen
and bergs of dry ice welcomed
an aging man, broad in staturehis suit blue
and necktie red tied unseemly long past
his belt buckle, his dress
shirt thoroughly wet with perspiration. 
He was alone
in his age and power—
a distant vinyl record popping echoes
sent scratches ‘cross a terraformed
Mars’ Acidalia Planitia coaxing  
this bloat king to kick his heels
in anxiety up at rusty heaven as he saw
mama a rockin’ rollin’ bitch comin’—
The Moonage Daydream descending. 
His digs in the sky, sojourns on moons
Phobos and Deimos orbiting ridiculous
speeds. 

David Bowie flung out his arms 
with splendor—guitar slung on his back 
like Elvis.
But the cringing ape man
gnawing 
on a Filet O’Fish, 
fries and Diet Coke,
The Donald fixed narrow eyes like slits
on him and whipped his golden ray gun out.

Not tonight!—cried The Starman. 
Sweet baby let me blow 
your mind instead.
My name is Ziggy,
I make love with my Ego,
just like you.
I was born a Jumpin’ Juniper Jones.
I died beloved 
Bowie. Yeah baby,
I wear makeup—
my hair is red, just like yours.
Some call me Stardust.
When it was cool to be a fascist— 
I donned the Thin White Duke—
but everybody loved me—
only you became a President
and no one bought 
your trivial fond records.

This soul love cut from a British voice
so illegal, so alien, so afraid of Americans,
afraid of the world, he had theatre and scars
in his heavens, in all his years of danger
leaping he faced the stance of this hopeless man,
and thus the All-Bowie shook the dust,
the juicy glam, and the richesse of purple razz
off his thrusting Nazz 
and God-given Ass—
then his delicious rosy hips
uttered a throated sigh, 
tossing orange hair
into the sky.

UHN!

The depressed walrus contemplated him
with shock, dropping the gun
with an entire 
undigested mouthful
of Mars McDonaldland 
tumbling from his mouth—

and for the first time
in the President’s life:
he told the truth.

“Star—Duster—whoever you are—
It’s no godawful small affair  
to this ape
with his thinning hair,   
and fellow citizens shouting no,  
the wife is saying 
“best go”. 
My kids and country are liars 
like me—  
there’s people dying from 
watching T.V. 
It happened to me on my watch,   
would they change 
by the way 
I walked?  

(cue orchestra strings)   

A good father knows 
what to do,  
You weren’t Ziggy,
The Nazz, or Duke
to your babes 
you were just a Dad! 
Can you help me 
to focus on—”  

(((((Lift – off)))))

This is ground control to Donald Trump.
Your mind is everywhere.
On the papers, what you eat, 
and what you wear!
It’s time to die to self if you dare!

“This is Donald Trump to Ground Control—
I don’t fit anymore.
Its every single day I pay a whore.
I want real love, Ziggy Man, I am a bore!”

Ground control to Donald Trump, 
you’re dead inside the whole thing’s wrong – 
Can you hear me Donald Trump?
Can you hear me Donald Trump?
Can you hear me Donald Trump?

“Can you see, I’m floating 
in my fat enormous body!
All the world was mine!
Space Force left me too
and there’s nothing I can do!”

Hahaha! My, my, someone fetch a priest.
You’re such a beast.
Don you’re lyin’ and you play
a rotten fortune teller on television 
but I’ll tell you who you are.

We’re still waiting on your real song.
It’s outta sight. 

Don’t ask me to get you out 
of this prison—

you can’t afford the ticket.