Beat Poems


only slumping occasionally

hugging Quaaludes

on the Brewery barroom floor

short and sweet

skin dark as a florida winter suntan



nobody should have called her

Debbie the Junkie

but we did

telling her she was driving everybody nuts

showing off

her dead boyfriend’s black onyx ring

she wore on a middle finger

promising to meet him soon

after killing herself like he did

on purpose with drugs

give it rest, Debbie, we said

so she did what she promised

and rest she did

eternal rest

buried by a stunned family 

in an anthracite cradled grave

where I couldn’t visit

even if I wanted to

because I never knew her last name

doubtful her mother inscribed

Debbie the junkie

on the gray headstone

I couldn’t visit if I wanted

after more than 50 years

I wonder


that black onyx ring remains

buried in her coffin

like licorice Nibs left outside to stiffen

in countless hard coal country winters

where a sad young woman’s

cold bones

and that black onyx ring

lay forever silent

and alone

Beat Poems


devil flames awakened me

dancing on my bedroom window

in the rented red brick ranch house

where we lived

parallel to Routes 11 and 15

parallel to railroad tracks polished silver

parallel to the wide Susquehanna River

where Sonny and I fished for pregnant carp

and redneck catfish

we hammered with a nail

through the head

to a wooden board

to skin with needle-nose plyers


by the time I got to the trailer

in bare feet and pajama bottoms

to stare at

the inferno

red and orange fire

incinerating the man inside

to a blackened barbecued crisp

nothing I could do

at 14

but watch the trailer tomb burn

in billowing smoke plumes

near river water    

unable to save him

in the trailer where he fried

nothing I could do

but learn

life and death lessons

that teach


how a man I couldn’t see

a man I didn’t know

could disappear


just go up in smoke.

Kamala Harris for President?

As of now either Democrat Joe Biden or Republican Donald Trump will be elected America’s next commander-in-chief. Despite the deep dismal failings of the Democratic Party, I’d rather they win.

But I won’t help. I won’t vote for Biden. I might vote for Vice President Kamala Harris if she replaces her boss on the November ticket.

Biden will lose if he runs.

Harris will win if she runs only if Democrats unleash a massive support campaign by assembling everybody Trump Republicans hate to put her over the top and into the White House. Trump might still pull out the win, maybe even by a landslide. Strategically, Kamala is the Democrats’ best weapon.

I quit the Democratic Party this year because Biden-led Democrats are complicit in the American-financed Israeli genocide in Gaza. I vowed never to vote for any Democrat who endorsed Biden’s support for Israeli zealots. If Kamala promises to help Palestinians rather than stand blindly with the exterminator Jewish state, I’ll think about voting for her.

When I voted for Biden in 2020 I actually voted for Harris. The ticket needed me to help beat Trump, whom I consider a madman capable of anything. The Democrats needed me even though not one Democrat among that pampered party extended me the courtesy of asking for my help.

America needed me. Now America needs Biden. We need the decrepit, self-absorbed 81-year-old to leave the ticket and make way for a fresh resurgence of leadership and the future of democracy.

Biden can step aside gracefully.

At least now he can step aside gracefully.

I won’t be surprised if Biden succumbs to physical and mental stress before the November election and collapses from a stroke or heart attack and even dies. The man has already suffered two brain aneurysms. Surgeries for those severe medical conditions occurred in 1988, 36 years ago when Biden was 45 years old and far more lucid than he is today.

Harris turns 60 one month before Election Day, a decade younger than Oprah who might make a good running mate. Just kidding. Whoever does run with Kamala, and I don’t mean Hillary, Michelle Obama or Beyoncé, will only add to her Black power.

White and Black women will vote for Kamala. Latinas will vote for Kamala. Uncommitted women will vote for Kamala. LGBTQ+ people will vote for Kamala. Potheads will vote for Kamala. Some traitor Republicans will vote for Kamala. Countless independent men across America will vote for Kamala too. If the Lord Almighty comes down, he’ll probably vote for Kamala as well.

Add more votes for Democrats depending on whom party puppeteers and donors choose to run with her. Pennsylvania rookie Gov. Josh Shapiro is a possibility. The wannabe Israeli prime minister and unbridled political opportunist can bring the swing from Commonwealth voters.

“Bring the swing!” even sounds like a sappy PR script for a flashy TV commercial geared to entice woke suburban Philadelphia women who will sucker for a nice interracial couple on the ticket. Like Kamala’s husband, Josh is a Jew too!

Except for obedient soldiers following orders and standing with Israel, most other voters from demographic groups I named will not vote for Biden if he remains on the ticket.

Democrats will lose.

America will lose.

Rednecks will win. Some particularly narrow-minded men will get so excited about Trump they’ll donate their already late child support checks to this gold-plated good old boy who brought us Jan. 6. Half of America is comprised of rednecks and tens of millions of them, more than the last time, including their women, will vote for Trump. Never forget that every Trump voter is a redneck at heart and proud of it.

This time Trump might really hang Mike Pence.

I have to admit I do like a good fight.

So if Trump does win, blame Biden, not me. Blame dirty, double-dealing Democrats, not me. Blame the Lord Almighty, not me.

Even without my vote Kamala Harris can win the White House. We need her public service experience. We need her prosecutorial savvy. We need her laugh. If Kamala flashes that big smile that’s even better than Biden’s and gets the nation laughing at Trump during a televised debate, Trump won’t know how to act.

For Kamala to win, Biden has to publicly withdraw from the re-election race and tell his delegates to support Kamala before the Aug. 9th Democratic National Convention begins. I’d prefer if Biden resigns from office immediately and Kamala takes over as soon as possible. Biden needs to accept reality while he’s still able to discern reality.

Time marches on, man.

No more malarkey.

Beat Poems


Helo’s quick to tell you

the road recognizes its own

riding his heavy metal Harley

fierce Viking beard in the wind

tattooed fists clutching black grips

retired Marine instincts firing on all cylinders

on a solo run through the country

when Helo spots a 400-pound bruiser bear on all fours

on the same stretch of open road

Appalachian American cousins

Perry County flesh and blood

animals against the world

Helo says the bear was one

of the most

righteous wild beasts

he ever saw

if only he could fit

Brother bear

into a cut-off denim vest

with one-percenter

club colors


across the back

like a ferocious fire god

guarding the gates of paradise

Beat Poems

When you see the photograph of me toasting life with a cold can of Tecate Mexican beer you know you came to the right place. Like a favorite bar where you can turn over a table without the owner calling the cops, my “Beat Poems” welcomes vagabonds, drifters and the unhinged.

This new website feature drives us down a rare road on my writing journey.

For the most part I don’t like poetry.

I don’t like most poets, either.

Smug, safe and non-controversial, they pose like soft pets congratulating themselves and patting each other on the backside of timid experience. Give me the call of the wild over domestic spa animals any day, even in my golden years.

The best poetry threatens to start a riot. The best poetry isn’t about walking through fog or frosty fallen snow on little pussycats’ feet. The best poetry twists the system and the mind. The best poetry turns over the table.

Few people know I started writing by writing poems. When I was 15 a high school English teacher, Mr. Maguire, loaned me his 1960 Grove Press copy of The New American Poetry. Just beginning to teach myself how to fight the Establishment, I plagued Mr. Maguire in and out of class. Many years later we spoke on the phone when he found himself fighting the educational system and it dawned on me we were on the same side. The late Mr. Maguire deserves credit and blame for helping awaken this Frankenstein word monster that walks among us.  

I still have that yellowed paperback poetry anthology on a sacred shelf in my office library. I wonder if it’s the same copy Mr. Maguire loaned me. If so, he never asked me to return the book. Passing the torch might be cliché but like most clichés holds the essence of truth. Beat poet ghosts run amok in the collection, showing deserving readers that rhyme and reason don’t have to go hand in hand.

Beat poetry lives. America even boasts its own “lifetime” Beat Poet Laureate. Kentucky Gonzo holy man Ron Whitehead once asked me if I wrote poetry, a puzzling question that left me feeling a little empty. Tempting and taunting, Whitehead stealthily recruited me the way a shaman poet must.

So I filled my tank and continue the ride, entering the molten center of a white-hot sunset where beat poets make rain, hurl lightning bolts at polite society and thunder our message through the ages.

Watch out for the Tecate can. Read my raw, unedited, free beer party poems. Learn the lessons of the sages as we drink in the mountains. Do not, though, I repeat, do not walk through fog or frosty fallen snow on little pussycats’ feet.

You might get lost and freeze to death.

Maya Poems From Isla Mujeres


firing squads

blasted bullet holes

into Mexican stone walls

killing patriots




in minds

still burning with freedom

Pancho Villa, Zapata, Jesús Malverde

Margarita Neri shooting and looting

with her campesino worker army

Eagle and Serpent

sent by Maya gods

to free island people

Rebels fought

for land

and liberty

Guerrilla ghosts

now stare

from pastel painted walls

on this busy Isla Mujeres street

Heroes forever

Good Jobs Don’t Kill People

Pro-Palestinian protesters lined the Scranton General Dynamics ammunition plant driveway Sunday afternoon shouting “shame” as workers came and went during an employee shift change. Workers there make shell casings workers elsewhere in America fill with explosives to send to Israel to kill Palestinian men, women and children.

More than 35,000 civilians have died in the Israeli slaughter many respected international human rights experts publicly call genocide. Men, women and children continue to die in the American government financed and supported Israeli carnage.

The Gaza Health Ministry asserts Israeli attacks have killed at least 37,765 Palestinians, mostly women and children. Israeli military assaults have wounded more than 86,400 Gazans. Over 11,000 people are missing. Scholars and researchers in Gaza consider the estimates low.

Scranton ammo plant teams work around the clock.

A skinny white woman wearing a tank top and blue jeans stormed past me Sunday on her way into the bomb factory.

“I’m going to work to pay my fucking bills,” she said to no one in particular, fuming and giving the crowd of about 25 people the bony finger she waved high above her short blond hair all the way to the high metal gate a security guard had earlier opened.


That’s what people do at the ammunition plant.

That’s how people make a living to survive.

Although I share the ire of other protesters, I also understand the corner into which the mighty pro-Israel lobby and elite elected officials have pushed these factory workers.

U.S. Rep. Matt Cartwright and U.S. Sen. Bob Casey are two favorite darlings of Israeli fanaticism and predatory defense contractors. Cartwright and Casey stand with Israel right or wrong. Cartwright and Casey support bombing Palestinians with weapons made in Scranton where Casey lives and Cartwright maintains a financial connection to a law office where his high-powered lawyer wife works.  

These two American Zionist hawks are not nice people. These pampered rich men are dangerous accomplices to murder.

On Sunday, as workers drove and walked to and from their shift at the plant, protestors chanted, “Good jobs don’t kill people.”

Their mantra makes a salient point that exposes Cartwright and Casey for the frauds they are. How many good jobs can either man honestly take credit for bringing home to Pennsylvania? If, in fact, either man has successfully procured work for constituents, do quality benefits and wages exist as part of the employment package?

Where are the good Scranton jobs that don’t kill people?

Not all ammo plant workers are demons although some deserve the label. Cartwright, Casey and their moneyed masters are the true ghouls who lack honor, morals, integrity, decency and a simple sense of right and wrong.

The Pope should personally kick both sinners out of the Roman Catholic Church. At least deny these immoral trespassers the sacrament of Holy Communion if they ever make an appearance before the altar rail. Absolution must be more selective for devils on the hell bound train.

Don’t target workers for a ramped-up protest. Confront Cartwright more than ever at his offices, Moosic mansion and public events. Don’t scorn people who might prefer working in jobs that don’t help kill. Confront Casey no matter where he goes.

Recognize both men as true enemies of humankind.

Of course, neither of these timid public pimps will sit face-to-face with me and answer hard questions about any issue that opens them up to truthful scrutiny. When was the last time either of these insecure Washington aristocrats spoke in person with an ammo plant worker let alone with an aggressive journalist?

Standing near the General Dynamics gate Sunday my wife held a handwritten white poster board sign that said in black ink, “Bread Not Bombs.”

I spoke with two plant workers who walked by.

“How you doing?” I said.

Both men nodded in response.

As they kept walking one looked at my wife’s “Bread Not Bombs” sign and said, “I wish.”

Turning to his colleague he softly repeated the words for emphasis.

“Bread not bombs,” he said.

Truth supposedly comes out of the mouths of babes.

So does truth come from the mouth of a bomb maker.

Eating Ourselves Alive

Cannibals could have saved Joe Biden.

Gobbling up the President the way Biden hinted New Guinea cannibals ate his Uncle Ambrose Finnegan during World War II would have at least kept Biden from taking the CNN debate stage.

Democrats could have benefited from human meat-eaters, too. They wouldn’t have to worry about Biden’s name appearing on the ballot for re-election in November.

Now Democrats and Republican carnivores are circling the upcoming presidential election like vultures soaring over the White House.

My crude slob U.S. Sen. John Fetterman (D-Pa.) even called out his colleagues as predators for turning on Biden after the octogenarian’s pathetic debate performance against former President Donald Trump.

“Chill the fuck out,” Fetterman wrote on X, formerly known as Twitter.

Yet few people can honestly argue Biden’s appearance last week showed the world anything better than a cracked shell of a former slick world leader. Biden stood open-mouthed and wide-eyed like an anile nursing home patient caught in the TV room with his pajama bottoms down.

Pathetic Biden vs. Pathological Trump?

America’s in more trouble than Biden’s missing Uncle Ambrose.

We’re eating ourselves alive.

Don’t blame me, I’m pescatarian.

Blame Scranton values.

As a former longtime Democrat who voted for Biden in 2020, I’ve warned Democrats about Biden for years. Two years ago I wrote a column for the national online magazine Gonzo Today titled “Don’t Run Again, Joe” in which I hit the nail and Biden’s hair plugs on the head.

But the public meltdown occurred long before Biden ambled onto the stage for the June 27 debate.

Biden mentioned his birthplace within seconds of his first response. The man Barack Obama called “the scrappy kid from Scranton” put his foot in his mouth within seconds of opening his yap (what many Scranton natives call a mouth).

“I come from Scranton, Pennsylvania,” Biden said. “I come from a household where the kitchen table – if things weren’t able to be met during the month was a problem. Price of eggs, the price of gas, the price of housing, the price of a whole range of things.

“That’s why I’m working so hard to make sure I deal with those problems. And we’re going to make sure that we reduce the price of housing. We’re going to make sure we build 2 million new units. We’re going to make sure we cap rents, so corporate greed can’t take over.”

Hip new loft apartments with granite countertops are all the rage in Scranton.

Yet even non-loft rent in Scranton is too high for the average Biden Street retail clerk or warehouse worker toiling in one of the dismal distribution centers greedy corporate millionaires erect throughout Northeastern Pennsylvania. Young working-class Scrantonians need truly affordable housing more than a misfiring robotic president.

Nobody’s capping anything in Scranton including an increase in homicides, homelessness, drug addiction and alcoholism. Nobody’s capping deaths of despair.

By the way, as Biden likes to say, maybe the biggest warehouse and commercial real estate mogul in Northeastern Pennsylvania is a convicted felon who served time in a federal prison for paying off judges who locked up kids for cash in adjacent Luzerne County.

When Biden left town with his family at 10 years of age, rents were cheaper for working-class people. Keep in mind blue-blooded Biden never spent a second of his privileged life as a true blue-collar worker. Lace curtain Irish pretender Biden came from money and political power. His great-grandfather served as a Pennsylvania state senator, for Christ’s sake. Biden’s beloved old Scranton neighborhood remains loaded with prep school snobs.

By-the-boot-straps myth defines Biden. That’s a big part of his problem. Wanting to be something he isn’t and never was will help destroy his well-crafted legacy once and for all. Blind party loyalty harms Biden far more than it helps. Misplaced political priorities add to what Democrats claim is an already collapsing system.

Biden’s advisors see what I see. They just won’t admit it. Waving from a stormy lee shore as Biden sails the ship of state into the cliffs, they cheer until the very end. Then they blame the rocks.

Tribalism defines Scranton politics. What elite pundits call “circling the wagons” means refusing to accept reality even when truth can be beneficial. Tribal dysfunction equals societal destruction. Those sacred Scranton values Biden claims to hold dear will shipwreck him and the rest of us, condemning constitutional democracy to an early grave.

Biden’s got to go as soon as possible.

Even with the best new presidential nominee Democrats can find, Trump will be difficult to beat. That’s why I predict Trump as America’s next president even if he’s elected from his prison cell which federal law allows. Tens of millions of voters will rush to the polls to vote for Trump in November because they hate the same people, places and things they believe he hates.

Countless conservative, fascist and off-the-rails voters hate Blacks, Browns, queers, drag queens reading books to children, women and “illegal aliens” whether they be Mexican, “Mooslum” or from Mars. Countless Trump voters are convinced Trump also despises these same “enemies of the people.” Don’t forget Trump has mocked Jews in the past. Countless Trump supporters mock Jews, as well. Countless Trump voters believe Hitler had some good ideas, too.

If the election comes down to Trump vs. Biden, Trump wins. Democrats will no doubt blame people like me who refuse to vote for Biden or any Democrat who has shored up Biden’s complicity in the Israeli genocide in Gaza.

Hey, hey, ho, ho, Scranton Joe has got to go. So do Fetterman, Zionist Biden apologist and Pennsylvania Gov. Josh Shapiro, U.S. Sen. Bob Casey, U.S. Rep. Matt Cartwright, Scranton Mayor Paige Gephardt Cognetti, state Sen. Marty Flynn and all the NEPA state reps.

Where are those cannibals when we need them?

Reporting the Gazan Ghost

Lean, unshaven and wearing a black helmet emblazoned on the front with the letters TV, the man who calls himself SAMIALUTIN on Facebook grins for the photographer. With a camera dangling from each shoulder and the word PRESS printed across the front of his blue flak jacket, he poses with Palestinian refugee children, his arms draped around their shoulders.

SAMIALUTIN says he’s a photojournalist from Gaza City trying to survive in a Rafa refugee camp under siege.

More than 122 journalists have died since Oct. 7 covering Israel’s Gazan slaughter. Israel has banned foreign reporters and commentators from covering what many of the world’s most experienced human rights experts call genocide.

SAMIALUTIN says he’s alive, if not well, and living amid death and destruction.

His Facebook biography is impressive.

“Works at ABC Diploma in Photography, Works at Owner and Photographer. Field Epidemiology Training Program Assistant agency for preventive health at Epidemiology & Public Health, Works at Photographer, photographer journalist at journalist, Studied at ‎كلية الايمان للدورات الاستكماليه, Studied at ‎شباب وصبايا كلية مجتمع الاقصي‎, Went to ‎جامعة الأزهر – غزة Al Azhar University Gaza, Went to ‎The Islamic University of Gaza الجامعة الإسلامية بغزة‎, Went to Islamic University of Madinah, Saudi Arabia, Went to English for Palestinian High School Students.”

But I don’t know if SAMIALUTIN is telling the truth.

I don’t know if SAMIALUTIN is his name. I don’t know if he’s a photojournalist. I don’t know if he’s in Gaza. Maybe the man is a woman scammer responding to my Facebook Messenger messages I sent as the horrific American-supported holocaust continues. I don’t even know if SAMIALUTAN is human. I’m inclined to believe the person with whom I recently communicated is a person and not a bot or AI invention generated by an algorithm.

I do know I’m suspicious.

If his story is true, I’d like to help. Since all good journalism is the search for truth, I need to know more about SAMIALUTIN aka “samialutan97.” If he’s legitimate, I want to tell his story, the saga of a brave journalist and a vulnerable people bombarded, left to starve, rot and die amid countless tons of ruin, disease and despair.

If he’s a fraud, I want to help shut him down.

SAMIALUTAN’s photo recently showed up on my personal Facebook cavalcade of “People You Might Know.” I sent a friend request which he quickly accepted. Angered by what little pressure against Israeli American-financed slaughter I can provide from Scranton, Pennsylvania, USA, I’m duty-bound to ramp up my fight against Zionist occupation and killing of men, women and children in Gaza.

As always, I stand with aggressive free speech.

I informed SAMIALUTAN in my first message that I’m an American journalist. I told him “I’m on your side.” That’s the side of human rights and Palestinian freedom, the side of truth, humanity and justice. I have always supported the right of self-defense by oppressed people seeking liberation.

SAMIALUTAN’s first response to me was, “Can you help me with little to help my family get something to eat, it’s been day 6 without food and water.” He added a little monk-like prayer emoji to his message.

He also sent PayPal information and a number for confidential phone messages. He wanted money. SAMIALUTAN’s Facebook page is loaded with appeals for cash as well as video and still photographs I have no proof he shot. Does PayPal work in a Palestinian refugee camp always at risk of Israeli attack and destruction? Does PayPal now serve Palestinians when in the past it did not?

Other than through Facebook Messenger I declined to connect with SAMIALUTAN.  Facebook might be a safer means of communication, but I don’t trust that tech monster either. When it comes to credibility, Meta Platforms, formerly Facebook, Inc. dictator Mark Zuckerberg is as bad as the Chinese government.

“Who do you work for?’ I wrote SAMIALUTAN in another Facebook Messenger message.

“Gaza_palestine press,” he responded.

“Do you have an editor I can contact?”

“No brother”

“Who oversees your work?”

“Al jazeera Arabic”

“Name and contact info for editor?”

Now SAMIALUTAN dropped a big name.

“motaz AZAIZA”

In April Time magazine named Gazan Palestinian photographer Motaz Azaiza as one of the 100 most influential people in the world. Azaiza “evacuated” Gaza in January and relocated to Qatar.

I sent Azaiza a message asking if he knew SAMIALUTAN, but he failed to respond. Al Jazeera also failed to respond to my message about whether SAMIALUTAN works with them.

“I’m a photographer who’s working as a Gaza press,” SAMIALUTAN wrote.

“I’m in the camp of Rafah,” he wrote.

I held my questions for a day.

“Are you there?” SAMIALUTAN wrote.

I didn’t respond.

“Pardon, my english is very poor I only understand the Arabic language much better,” he wrote.

That’s when I deleted my chat with SAMIALUTAN and removed him as a Facebook friend. With more than one thousand Facebook followers, showcasing shocking photos and video, SAMIALUTAN still asks for money.

“Thx for u mohammed u standing with me all the wa.r and thx for all people her support me and give me help thx,” he wrote on Facebook two days ago.

Not knowing the truth irks me. Is my grinning former Facebook friend a real photojournalist fighting honorably to keep himself and his family alive? Does he risk dying to tell the story of his people? Or is he a menacing fraud trying to profit from the remains of the dead and dying?

I’ve reported what little I know of his story as best I can.

My frustration continues.

The Gazan carnage continues.

So, too, does the search for truth.

Lock ’em Up!

Both of ’em.

Imprison former President Donald Trump and President Joe Biden’s son Hunter in a nice minimum security federal penitentiary complete with armed guards who hate government.

God bless the Second Amendment.


Five to ten years for committing 34 federal felonies a jury easily recognized as major crimes. A legal nuisance suit settlement? Illegal hush money to a porn actress? Doesn’t matter. A jury decided Republican Trump was guilty.

Lock ’em up!


Two years for three federal felonies. On second thought, give Democrat Hunter three years because a jury convicted him of fraudulently buying a gun that turned up missing until cops located the weapon. Somebody could have been killed.

Lock ’em up!

Who says I’m not fair? I’m even a left-wing Socialist militant activist journalist who’s supposed to be more liberal than redneck, frothing-at-the-mouth law and order militia members who wanted to hang Mike Pence.

Lock ’em up!

Both of them.

Come to think of it, lock up Mike Pence, too. The guy did serve as Trump’s vice president. That alone should be a crime against human nature.

America needs evidence no man or woman is above the law. Most good citizens no longer believe government propaganda that claims justice is blind. Pure disinformation oozes from every pore in every deceitful politician’s body. Special interest cash clogs the system worse than any stuffed up White House bathroom, strip club men’s room where Hunter snorted coke or gold Mar-a-Lago commode where Trump sat and read classified documents he took home with him when he finished his term of office.

To save taxpayer money Trump and Hunter can share a cell. Bunk buddies constitute a classic definition of political bipartisanship. Trump gets the bottom simply because of his age. Hunter probably has enough cocaine residue left in his system to enable him to spring to the top bunk with a simple hop, skip and jump.

Don’t get me wrong.

I take no solace in American dysfunction that dooms future generations to living in a dystopian republic populated by oblivious citizen zombies who don’t think deeply or challenge a political system that disrespects them at every turn of the screw. Screwed but happy is the cult mantra for gullible Democrats and Republicans alike.

And I’m happy if Hunter’s off the crack pipe.

I say “if” because all I have is his word for his “recovery.” I worked too long 40 years ago as a state prison drug and alcohol counselor to take a junkie’s word at face value about anything.

Once a dope fiend always a dope fiend.

Hunter won’t be better in a year or two or three or 30. What matters is what Hunter does to control his addiction for the entire duration of the whole rest of his life. And I’m not convinced Hunter Biden has done nearly enough to even begin to prove redemption.

Maybe he never will.

Hunter Biden needs a heavy dose of steel bars to help set him straight rather than another etched invite to another White House state dinner where he is a regular VIP guest. Same goes for Trump, a serial liar who might behave better on the crack pipe. The man has his own problems. A walking talking personality disorder even without drugs, Trump is long overdue for an orange jumpsuit to match the blow-dried mop that covers his head.

Prison will provide a good excuse for Melania to file for divorce. Whatever she gets is better than what she has.

As for Scranton Joe — sell the Stingray.

Alleged “artist” Hunter wants to get his paint-smeared hands on that Corvette if, before or after he goes to jail. Dear old dad can use the proceeds to buy one of those snazzy, souped-up mechanized wheelchairs to tool around town when he finally accepts he’s not up to the job of president.

If he moves back home retirement will even offer discounted senior citizen’s tickets at the Scranton/Wilkes-Barre RailRiders baseball games. The old boy can reminisce about when he played Little League in the snooty lace curtain Irish Greed Ridge section of town.

I mean Green Ridge.

Play ball!

I mean, lock ’em up!

Joe can even invite his old Black buddy Corn Pop to stop by the house to smoke a medical marijuana joint. On second thought, scratch that idea. Getting high with Corn Pop can get you locked up or committed here in Pennsylvania hard coal country.