America. Flag most beautiful. We love it, hug it. Wear it on t-shirts, bandanas, and panties. Pledge ourselves to its Gospel of Prosperity. Its Manifest Destiny, Anglo-Saxon success stitched in its stars and the blood red stripes that might recall the backs of slaves, were the mind to move at all. Land of the free market. Idols drip down our city streets like hot gold or come pounding ‘round corners like heavy-hooved beasts. The golden calf grown large and bronzed, once spotted staring down a little girl—hair waving like a cape. She was removed shortly after for making the scene emotional.
America, where White-Cain, woman encased in pink, places her pumps firmly behind the president, shouts down those opposing demons, and declares the White House holy ground. Loosing little pink-robed angels in pumps now zipping around offices, buzzing out soundbites: “The president is the prophet Jeremiah,” one hums, “called by God.” Another begins, strumming harp, “I have every right and authority—” a third puts hand on hip, does hair flip, smiles for camera, “to declare the White House holy ground.” The problem arises after the court decides they must hang up their pink robes and pumps, because gender isn’t meant for that construction—angels are male like God and presidents. For this reason, women should cover their heads, only if they’re attractive enough and fear the grabbing hands of the sons of God. No one wants to birth Nephilim, but other options are being taken off the table.
America, where White-Cain stakes her claim on faithfully fallow ground—holy like emanating a divine spark, like burning bush or an electric shock when the president crushes red carpet under heel. Holy like God will lay you low with trembling. By movements of troops or silent simmering drones—precision-count adjusted to absorb civilian casualties, then canceled due to poor audience interest. Who could count the blessings of our sleeker angels carrying capsules of apocalypse, blasting euthanasic medicine, or teaching foreign children the fear of clear skies? This holiness hiding death in the light. Holiness placing life in the dark. Like God’s army of fear oracles and prophets of a very white peace leading children into cages with the piper’s promise of a better life; it’s deserved, we heard. They broke the Law.
“America,” we pray, “One Nation, under One God, keep us too busy to hear our brothers’ blood. The cries from the ground are grating.”