Slices of Life 4

Like the US itself, Trump is nothing but his image, so when he looks weak, confused, ridiculous or petty, the world can see exactly how his eviscerated nation is doing

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

Image War — Aug 16, 2025.

Since American presidents are now at risk of stumbling headfirst going up or down Air Force One, it’s only logical for them to use stairlifts and evacuation slides. Why chance having the Defender of the Free World crack his denture and skull, just heading to another golfing vacation, or some global summit where he will be mostly ignored, if not mocked? Sliding down, each POTUS should be without pants or Depend. With a splash, he’ll plunge into a kiddie pool as journalists cheer. After being washed, perfumed and sedated by two illegal immigrant nurses of color, he’s ready to hit the red carpet to shake hands with foreign dignitaries.

For transparency’s sake, this entire process will be broadcast live on CNN, Fox News and the BBC, with appropriate color commentaries. “For some reasons, that brown bitch is taking too long to soap the president’s balls. Soon as we find out why, we’ll give you an update. Meanwhile, President Putin of Russia patiently waits, his only sign of exasperation a barely perceptible sigh.”

These patriotic and constructive reflections were triggered by the alarming yet endearing spectacle of Trump zigzagging in Alaska. Was he trying to find Cook Inlet? Since Putin took his time descending, Trump had to wait. When the better man finally appeared, Trump erupted with three bursts of applause. Receiving no equivalent affection, Trump looked positively forlorn when they finally shook hands. With his palm up, Trump was a beggar, and for seconds, his left hand even joined their manual coupling in an unmanly, needy threesome. In our image obsessed world, these spectacles aren’t just significant but emblematic. Like the US itself, Trump is nothing but his image, so when he looks weak, confused, ridiculous or petty, the world can see exactly how his eviscerated nation is doing.

This stinking and stumbling psycho is strapped to thousands of nuclear warheads, however. Without them, the US would just be one vast Skid Row, begging to be divided up by Mexico, Canada, Russia, China and Greenland. Here and there in the Heartland, there may still be MAGA republics, though impoverished, irrelevant and worse off than today’s Lesotho, Eswatini, Tristan da Cunha or Bir Tawil.

Rwanda and Gabon have joined Israel, Azerbaijan, Armenia, Pakistan and Cambodia in nominating Trump for the Nobel Peace Prize. No major European, Oriental or South American countries have done so. Even the most servile US vassals can’t risk embracing a genocidal child rapist.

Demanding peace between Thailand and Cambodia, 2,500 monks marched through Phnom Penh on 8/10/25. Over a dozen hoisted large photos of Trump, with “Thank You! Mr. President.” Though the US likely had a hand in starting that war, these cloistered doofuses credited the Donald with stopping bloodshed.

Right in downtown Tirana is George W. Bush Street. Though short, it passes Mosque of Namazgah, Albania’s largest. Maybe Trump will have at least an alley named after him in Phnom Penh? He’s winning the image war in Cambodia!

In 2020, I was astounded to discover Trump Kids Kindergarten in Lào Cai, a Vietnamese city of 130,000 right on the Chinese border. In an obscure spot high up in the mountains, Trump was idolized by ignorant Communists. This state run school is still there.

(L): 2,500 monks march, Phnom Penh, Cambodia, 8/10/25 ; (R): painting of Bill Clinton in Jeffrey Epstein’s Manhattan mansion

The US as a brand is most seductive to those with no chance of experiencing the Tenderloin, Skid Row, Philadelphia’s Kensington, Camden, Gary, South Bend, Youngstown, Scranton, St Louis, Oakland or all of New Orleans outside the French Quarters. They’re like those middle-aged guys in Amman, Jordan who are mesmerized by one Hollywood movie after another at cozy yet grimy Pop Café, a place no tourist but one has ever entered. They don’t know what it’s like to endure social distancing nearly every waking hour for decades. I’ve never experienced a population more atomized.

Let’s examine one photo of Zelensky’s visit to the White House on 2/28/25. With his arms folded, the Jewish clown is being scolded by two suited idiots, with Trump flaunting his trademark pucker. Like his boss, lapdog Vance is waving his hands in disapproval. Basic manners dictate you don’t bully a guest, even in private, but this was a staged spectacle, performed for Trump’s Budweiser and Miller High Life swilling base. The setting itself is laughable. Behind Trump on the mantel are the tackiest golden urns and figurines, and “TRUMP” is on some booksized block on the coffee table. Trump must always push his brand. Of course, there are no real books within sight. Flags of the US Army and US Marines flank this draft dodger. If only Liberace had become president!

If only we were just talking about taste. Just now, photos of Epstein’s Manhattan mansion have emerged. Though we see the same level of pricey tackiness so beloved by Trump, there are much darker notes. Vigilant Citizen describes a work of art, “Everything about this sculpture is creepy and unsettling, especially considering that young girls were being raped and abused in this very mansion. White gowns worn by brides are meant to represent their purity and virginity. This particular bride is seemingly attempting to escape something awful… like maybe an old pedo trying to abuse her. They like to mock their victims.” Inside this pedo rape paradise are sweet photos of Epstein with Bill Clinton, Trump, Melania, Bill Gates, Mick Jagger and Elon Musk, among others. A long letter from Woody Allen includes this poetic line, “Add to this that Jeffrey lives in a vast house alone, one can picture him sleeping in damp earth.”

There’s a lovely painting of a saucy Bill Clinton in a blue dress and red heels. Draped across a French Empire chair, he’s showing off his cleavage and flashing a pink thigh.

Long before death, they’re hell dwellers, and proud of it. Why not? Indulging in the worst acts imaginable has reaped them the greatest benefits. Most of their victims even consider them gods.

Baltimore, Maryland, USA: (L): 5/26/11 ; (R): 12/18/11

So Far Gone! — Aug 17, 2025.

The mysterious animal living in Mrs. Seven’s house turned out to be a large green frog. Dwelling behind her coolers, it had standing water on the concrete floor to drink, plus mosquitoes and gnats, one must assume, to feast on. Worrying about this beast’s poor diet, she left a hunk of bread by its side. Since it remained untouched days later, she removed it. Content, this solitary exile will stay right where he is, a silent, brooding presence, unmolested by men, dogs or God. That’s a better fate than most men’s. His options beyond this house aren’t great. Escaping, he’d likely be squashed or gently lowered into a boiling pot of rice gruel with mung beans.

At Vietnamese wet markets, you’ll see skinned frogs still alive. I’ve also written a poem about a turban wearing and gum chewing “sadistic climbing perch monger.”

Here’s the killer part, “Keeping these fish in a tin basin, she takes out each one and snips, with a scissors, its tail, anal fin, dorsal fin, pelvic fin, ventral fin, pectoral fin, then, finally, head. If only she would reverse this order, the climbing perch would not thrash about during the entire process.”

All travelers know no two nations do anything the same. Of course, if you only hop from one global enclave to another, you’ll miss most of these stark or subtle differences, but that’s not traveling. Landing in Timbuktu, Nakhchivan or Qaanaaq, they look immediately for a McDonald’s and a Starbucks.

Baltimore, 5/26/11

Recently, Trump cited Oakland and Baltimore as examples of cities “so far gone,” they need federal intervention, as just happened in DC. Since Trump doesn’t drive, much less walk, anywhere dicey, he has no direct experience of Anacostia or Deanwood in DC, much less Baltimore, but that’s true of his critics also. Whether conservative or liberal, most Americans know better than to stray into black ghettos. Here are the five deadliest American cities, Memphis, Oakland, St. Louis, Baltimore and Detroit. Four are majority black, with St. Louis nearly so.

Just pointing out these facts will get me charged as a “racist” by many upstanding Americans, but consider this hateful passage, “In the city of Philadelphia the increasing number of bold and daring crimes committed by Negroes in the last ten years has focused the attention of the city on this subject. There is a widespread feeling that something is wrong with a race that is responsible for so much crime, and that strong remedies are called for.” It was written in 1899 by that famous Nazi, W.E.B. DuBois, when he was best buddies with Adolf Hitler. Growing up in adjacent rowhouses, they’d split even a pretzel. So poor, they had to pool money over months to buy one Tastykake.

When Trump talked about solving urban crimes, his MAGA base plus many others immediately understood it as a resolve, finally, to tackle black crime, so they cheered, though not at work or in polite company. With Trump, though, it’s just another con and misdirection. He’s using black crime to normalize the presence of soldiers on American streets. Having engineered the worst economic collapse, he’s preparing for its attendant chaos and violence.

Baltimore, Maryland, USA: (L): 5/26/11 ; (R): 12/18/11

As a high school kid in Northern Virginia, I’d drive my Mustang II to Baltimore to catch my Mariners play the Orioles at Memorial Stadium. I’d head straight there from my McDonald’s job on Little River Turnpike. In my M’s jersey and waving a pennant, I once screamed so loud while sitting alone in the outfield, a player turned around to stare at the freak. I’d like to say it was Ruppert Jones, but he must have been retired by then.

As an adult in Philly, I’d take a Greyhound to Baltimore to spend another relaxing, near suicidal day. Away from its Inner Harbor, the city looked bombed. Wandering around Charm City, I started to understand why John Water’s Divine thought eating dogshit was so wonderful. With so many murals honoring murder victims, you also feel close to God, as in, “I’ll be there in a second, Jesus.” It’s a spiritual city.

You, too, should drop everything to visit Baltimore at the first opportunity. Its tourism slogan, “You won’t get it till you get here.” A preview, “A 13-year-old boy with 18 prior felony arrests has been apprehended again, this time for a series of armed carjackings and robberies that took place across Baltimore from July 26 to 27, according to the Baltimore Police.” Similar youths are liberally sprinkled across America.

Under Biden, there was a noticeable uptick in anti social behavior, including street takeovers, flash robberies, smash and grabs, dine and dashes, porch piracy and nuisance streaming. Far from going away, these have only increased under Trump, since their root causes, alienation, pathological self absorption, community breakdown, unaffordability of basics and meaningless existence, have only been exacerbated. Plus, Trump is himself a worldclass felon. Crime exudes from all his pores and orifices effortlessly. Trump emanates crime.

In 1992, Camden Yards opened in Baltimore. Now, there are retro ballparks all over. Inside these exclusive environments, the USA is still safe and wholesome. The cheapest seat for a game five days from now goes for $23, with the most expensive at $153. With the added cost of hot dogs, soft drinks, beer and parking, a typical family of four can’t come here. Triple locked inside some ghetto rowhouse or a suburban duplex, they can still enjoy this American mirage, on their bought-on-credit flatscreen. That’s how it will be, then, as their world cracks, crumbles and burns.

New York, 8/4/09

John Rocker, Prophet — Aug 18, 2025.

Twenty five years ago, an Atlanta Braves pitcher, John Rocker, said, “I’m not a very big fan of foreigners. How the hell did they get in this country?” With his team in NYC to play the Mets, Rocker observed, “Imagine having to take the 7 train to the ballpark, looking like you’re riding through Beirut next to some kid with purple hair next to some queer with AIDS right next to some dude who just got out of jail for the fourth time right next to some 20-year-old mom with four kids. It’s depressing.”

It’s clear this 26-year-old had never been to Beirut or anywhere in the Middle East. Even today, you almost never see in Muslim nations purple haired kids, queers with AIDS, obvious felons or 20-year-old moms with four kids. Unlike in the USA, their criminals, degenerates and misfits don’t advertise themselves. Even American nerds pose as gangstas, for their culture glamorizes all crimes, including genocides.

When Rocker was born in Statesboro, GA in 1974, it had roughly 17,000 people. In high school, he lived in Macon (pop. 130,000). Though a city, it’s still in the same state, then he was drafted by the Braves. Nearly his entire minor league career was spent in the South.

There were plenty of Latino players in his organization, however, and the big club’s roster for 2020 included players from Venezuela, Curacao, the Dominican Republic, Panama, Canada and Cuba. Even with so many foreign teammates, Rocker had plenty of white ones to socialize with, however. The appearance of everyone working together towards a common goal disguises the fact that, after the game, most players stick with their own race or at least those who speak their language comfortably. Even on the airplane home, they self-segregate.

New York, USA: (L): 10/8/11 ; (R): 11/3/17

Rocker’s disgust, fear and hatred of NYC is all too common. It’s not just the natural reaction of any bumpkin towards the city, but of every child when forced to enter school, or of any man on his first trip abroad, even if he’s going voluntarily, for pleasure. To be uprooted is always violent, but without this, almost no goals are achievable, especially today. Very few are allowed to be housewives or simply shopkeepers in their hometowns. Thrust into alien, bewildering environments, nearly everyone seeks to reclaim his hickishness by frequenting the same bar, café, cheesesteak joint or Chinese takeout, or he can watch the Braves or Phillies for 200 times a year, including the playoffs and Spring Training. Compulsive, addictive behavior is nearly an inevitable reaction to the terrors of displacement.

Retired, Rocker must be living in some Southern town, so he’s no longer displaced. Most people don’t have that option.

Trump’s decision to send National Guardsmen from Ohio, West Virginia and South Carolina to Washington DC made me think of John Rocker. Unlike the pitcher, they won’t be armed with fastballs and sliders, but M4 carbines and M9 pistols. Nothing will go wrong, I’m sure.

Deployed around Union Station, Georgetown, Chinatown and 14th Street, they’ll make a show of arresting sandwich throwing drunks and public urinators, but their real tasks, make no mistake, is to sow fear and disorder. When American cities go up in flames, American hicks will cheer.

Though the worst kind of New Yorker, Trump, with his red cap, is posing as a John Deere tractor driving peasant. You’d never find him plopped next to a John Rocker, though, at any good ol’ boys tavern. Served a pickled trotter, the Donald would retch.

Before college, I had been to NYC just once. At 15-years-old, I went there with my mother, stepfather and half brother on a day trip, a very long drive from Northern Virginia. That day’s highlight was a visit to the top of the World Trade Center. Applying for college, I was accepted at Pratt and Parson, but visited neither. Wanting to become an oil painter, I knew I’d have to confront NYC at some point.

New York, USA: (L): 10/8/11 ; (R): 11/3/17

From Philly, I’d take two local trains to NYC. At first, it was only to visit its museums. Eventually, I’d get to know many neighborhoods, including those across the Hudson in New Jersey. I gave poetry readings at St. Mark’s Place, the Nuyorican Café and a few other venues I can’t quite remember. I was paid to talk to a class at Yeshiva University, I’m not kidding. I was on a panel at NYU with Susan Sontag and Carolyn Forché, among others. I was a critic-in-residence at Art in General. Many of my college friends moved to NYC. My main publisher was there. On my last visit, I was interviewed by Chris Hedges for Russia Today. I wrote a long poem about Yankee Stadium. Despite all this exposure, I never warmed up to Manhattan. It’s too much about image, with every transplant remaking himself to be more worldly, even freakish. Even their speech changes.

At Philly’s Friendly Lounge, there was a regular, Johnny AC, who made it a point to never visit NYC, and he had been to Japan.

For thousands of years, we lived in villages. Now, 55% of the world’s population dwell in cities, with millions packed into cubicles suspended in smog. Last week, some tattooed asshole in Hanoi was caught on camera beating up a female neighbor by the elevators. He clearly didn’t care who she was, or even where he was. His soulless, arrogant face exudes alienation.

When I was born in November of 1963, Saigon had a population of 1.6 million. Now, it has 14. That’s why I’m living in a drowsy city by the ocean. At 4:06AM, I’m again sitting at a sweetly shabby café in a quiet alley. Mrs. Seven is still living in her childhood home. Through the open door of her bedroom, I can see an elegant pastel portrait of her late father. On her wall is a peeling mural of the Vietnamese countryside. Her two dogs’ one big trip was to the wet market, a quarter mile away. Behind her red cooler, a large green frog contently squats. Like everyone, he has had enough harrowing life experiences to brood over.

Clearly, our species’ existence is unsustainable. Though we know and sense this, there’s nothing we can do. Our elites, though, have firm, definite plans they’re already executing. Meanwhile, there are still baseball games to be stared at on our droning televisions.

About Linh Dinh (@linhdinh):

‘Before being canceled, I was an anthologized poet and fairly prolific author, with my last book Postcards from the End of America. Now, I write about our increasingly sick world for a tiny audience on SubStack. Drifting overly much, I’m in Cambodia.

Born in Saigon, Vietnam in 1963, I lived mostly in the US from 1975 until 2018, but have returned to Vietnam. I’ve also lived in Italy, England and Germany. I’m the author of a non-fiction book, Postcards from the End of America (2017), a novel, Love Like Hate (2010), two books of stories, Fake House (2000) and Blood and Soap (2004), and six collections of poems, with a Collected Poems cancelled by Chax Press from external pressure. I’ve been anthologized in Best American Poetry 2000, 2004, 2007, Great American Prose Poems from Poe to the Present, Postmodern American Poetry: a Norton Anthology (vol. 2) and Flash Fiction International: Very Short Stories From Around the World, etc. I’m also editor of Night, Again: Contemporary Fiction from Vietnam (1996) and The Deluge: New Vietnamese Poetry (2013). My writing has been translated into Japanese, Italian, Spanish, French, Dutch, German, Portuguese, Korean, Arabic, Icelandic, Serbian and Finnish, and I’ve been invited to read in Tokyo, London, Cambridge, Brighton, Paris, Berlin, Leipzig, Halle, Reykjavik, Toronto, Singapore and all over the US. I’ve also published widely in Vietnamese.’

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