Thanksgiving in Trump’s America

The state of politics is a state of decay. The capital, Ignorance.

You toil, daily, your hands wrist deep in sewage. The cleanup is nigh impossible. Those you expect to render the stark, devastatingly beautiful truth of reality stop short at paying lip service to the status quo. Rhetorical devices are clichés. “Orwellian” is a trope softening the hard edges of the ideological pictures painted by the dogmatically stupid. The canvas before you wasn’t caressed by Leonardo’s brush; it was assaulted by the unwieldy, careless fingers of a five-year old whose behavioral disorder compels him to paint the walls with shit the moment the babysitter isn’t watching.

The decay of American Democracy, Make America Great Again
US Navy file image.


America is a shining city on a hill. That hill rises from a landfill. The landfill is full of hills, pregnant with the same shine. That shine is the inexorable encroachment of the failures of our successes, the ruins of our vast hunger. The lords and ladies of this land are garbage people.

Make America Great Again, garbage people
Landfill–creative commons

California burns. Florida drowns. The hypocrites are children of God. Corruption has become a core value while integrity has become a liability. All that matters is power, wealth, status. Even in the bleakness of a universe doomed by the weight of its own existence, we’ve failed to see that we have arrived at the apotheosis of the American experiment.

Intentionally savage ignorance rules the world. A culture defines itself by the fairness of its flesh, justifying its all too uncertain grip on the throat of power with the robust superficiality of gods made in the images of desperate men. It sees before it a world awash in brown. It sees this and it cries out that it is still the most relevant, the most righteous, the most just. As it does, it claims persecution. South African farmers are killed, their land stolen by monsters and demons. Latinos are taking all those hard-won landscaping jobs. Homosexuals are being too open with their want for wedding cakes. The children are full of blame and wrath, but come equipped with just enough purchasing power to afford a latte. Women refuse to see themselves as pack horses and mobile incubators, dismissing the demands of Bronze Age patriarchs. And the blacks? They had everything, but they fought to see themselves the victims of their own impoverished intellects, consigning themselves to urban street battles over colorful rags and control over the crack trade.

Border walls and internment camps are the new embodiments of compassion. And the most powerful man in the world keeps promising the moon while handing you the key to room 237.



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