God grant us the liberty to
consume, defile, and fuck, fuck,
fuck; treble in size, then consume
what’s left. God grant us
our right to leave the kids
babysat by TV. Cede the
FCC eight bucks an hour and two
Cokes from the brand new fridge.
Praise be to aetataureate excess
of every single sort. Let our pristine
asses and SUVs flatulate,
fog grey the broad welkin.
Praise be to spin and obfuscation,
brushing rank shit ‘neath sofa’s dust
ruffles—no Yankee eye spies it,
it’s not really there.
Long live the American Night.
God bless it. God bless black
oil and brown Africans who can’t
define “informed consent.” God
bless little, yellow, rheumy hands, and
the fine, fine stitching on Gap capris.
God bless our blue-eyed, Brad Pitt Jesus,
and God bless our unfurled flag:
bloodred, blue, and Christ white grand
standard embodying our most effusive
essence. Palimpsest unstained
by oblations effaced, it is avatar of
all we are: the nine-to-five jobs
we hate, the insuperable anger
we hold; the right to Hobson’s choices
and representative kakistocracy. Our
tired, poor, and huddled masses will
protect it with their very lives, the lives of
their babies. Sacrifices
sometimes must be made. The nonce disappeared
will be remembered thrice a year—
three-day weekends, explosions in the sky,
icy cold beer. Lord, may we
ever remain one nation, under Great White God.