By John Kendall Hawkins

…[M]en should be treated in such a way that there’s no fear of their seeking revenge…

-Nicolai Machiavelli, “Mixed Principalities,” The Prince

“You come at the king, you bess not miss.”

– Omar, The Wire

Donald Trump sat with Recep “Cepi” Erdoğan

At a nez à nez cafe in the Golden Horn,

Fog over the Straits, fishmongers singing the blues,

Their little secret summit all over the news.

They gazed, they preened, with their fincan pinkies high,

Just two kings talking — evil eye to evil eye.

DJ flashed his grand, bizarre smile and sneered, “The Press

Is all over me and the country is a mess.

I fear some Lefty might impeach me with a gun

And I’ll find myself leaping in front of my son.”

Cepi laughed at that, and said, “Well, listen to this:

When they did Khashoggi — Oh, I watched with such bliss.

I jail journos, make them watch Midnight Express for fun.”

“Enemas of the State,” they harmonized, “Undone.”

They laughed about Idlib, and al-Baghdadi’s face

When he realized there was no escape cave in place.

Trump said, “He died like a dog and blew up the kids —

I lied,” he smirked, “Abbottabads Abbottobids.”

Cepi howled, “Badda bing bang boom — politics!

Nothing wrong with you a good hamamin’ can’t fix.”

The garson brought the tab and DJ made a lunge —

He didn’t want Cepi to think he was a sponge.

But Cepi was quick and snatched the bill and snickered,

“Your money’s no good here,” said Cepi; they bickered.

“CNN’s the most phoney fakes of news,” Trump said.

“What about the Kurds?” he mimicked the talking head.

At that, Cepi gave the garson a second glance,

Took back his tip, and made the poor waiter’s eyes dance.

The two good buds arose, Cepi winked and they strolled.

DJ said, “Mohammad got back to me to scold.

He said sweetly, ‘Donald, that wasn’t very nice’

To treat my discombobulations as a vice.

What if I’d made fun of your curtsy and laughed

To your face?’” Cepi cracked up, thinking DJ gaffed.

“There goes that Trump tower in Riyadh,” howled Cepi,

And slapped DJ on the back, dancing, two-steppy.

DJ morosely followed his Turkish delight.

They strode through the twists and turns of the Taksim night,

Down cobblestone streets, Cepi, like Virgil, leading —

Well, maybe if Virgil had had no real breeding —

And on the buds strode, ignoring the blood-kurdling screams,

Cepi saying, “Journos” (wink) “at work in their dreams.”

DJ pictured Maddow, with new bounce in his bones —

In fact, all the press! — and their screams became his koans.

After their purgatorial conversation,

They came to the Red Light D and knew their station.

They passed pervs, punks, pimps and glassed-in storefront cages

With dancing mannequin-like Beatrices of all ages.

Cepi said to DJ, “Go have a pussy grab.”

Trump groaned, “No can do, Cepi, my hand’s in rehab.

Until after November.” They left Paradise,

With the promise of pleasure still twinkling their eyes,

They giggled and goosed all the way to Taksim Square —

Pigeons out of control, broken heads strewn everywhere,

Tumbleweed tabloids, Atatürk’s pic on the ground,

Tarzan-like prayer calls, cab honks, and no other sound.

“DJ, you gotta break a few eggheads” (puffing)

“If you wanna make an Om.” But Trump’s mind was muffing

Back in the Red Light D. Cepi said, “Listen to this,

If you want to kill the king, you’d better not miss.”