walking through dyker heights in the spring
trump flags
and banners
bend with the breeze
as the million-dollar homes
of the well-fed and contented
sit lifeless and devoid of character
in the muted daylight
everyone wants you to know
that they’re a patriot here
from the nationalistic mumbo-jumbo
bumper stickers on their big fat cars
to their american knick-knacks
planted in well-manicured lawns
it’s the kind of jingoistic artifice
that we love here in america
cozy bullshit like a warm blanket on your day
no one starves in dyker heights
no one struggles to pay the mortgage or the rent
and they all wear golden bootstraps
at christmas time
people flock here by the carloads
to see the homes all decked out in lights
the lit-up mangers on the lawns
the tin box carols
blaring out into the street
normal rockwell diarrhea
from the smiling faces of fascism
hiding behind the pleasantries
of the season
it gets so crowded that the cops
have to come and control it
rosy-cheeked foot soldiers
waving candy cane billy clubs
at cars full of cherubic white families
who want so badly to believe
in their own benevolent innocence
but who are as fat and fake
and as much of a myth
as jolly old santa claus
himself.
--John Grochalski
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