Cheeto Jesus

 

They call me Cheeto Jesus, and I got my own authority.

It is sprayed on every two weeks in the shade, “tangerine beam,”

it’s in the way I pout my lips to the skies while these bitches yap.

I sit in my fortified castle,

on the edge of the golden throne with my minty vanilla smell,

comb over my platinum-blonde hair,

count how many ways,

I can bring bread to the palm of my hand.

These are the duties of the supreme,

the ways of the legendary.

 

The face that moves in my mirror is sexy and chiseled,

scraped orange and refined, mango-peeled,

I am filled with my own drool.

Last year, a jackass raced

against me and thought she’d win,

kicking my balls to the core.

I didn’t feel a thing until I looked down

and saw them both on the floor

next to my fine Italian shoes,

and I haven’t stroked them since then.

 

I sit here and watch Muslims take over my nation.

walking like heros up and down the halls in my head,

walking like their ugly brown mothers named them American.

My friends tell me that isn’t white.

So I lunge out into the crowd

where my authority makes them bow their heads,

or into the afternoon

with a pen in my pocket,

an agenda tucked in my suit.

I was born to make America great again.

 

It’s easy now to move my masterful body into the light,

to move from a place where there was disorder

into the TV-sets of these spics,

the laws raised up high over my head.

It’s a kick to know their eyes expand,

round and gleaming like cartoon sewer rats,

right in that second when they know

the law’s gonna come down, I have this thing

I like to say, listen to this, I like to say

“Hey, rapist, start building that wall.”

 

I get hard listening to their hearts shatter.

I was born to make America great again.

 

Then these journalists come around,

seems I was a little too loud mocking some retarded ass

and he opened his hole and cried about it.

These reporters find me nestled up in my hotel,

those TV flashes spitting my face clean.

Same old shit.

I don’t have jobs for whites, the niggers and spics took them all.

Why don’t I care? Look at my face, asshole.

No, I’m not part of a fascist group,

I’m just a white billionaire who loves his race,

fighting for an Aryan country.

Sometimes it’s just me. Sometimes 33. Sometimes 301.

DOWN SYNDROME will take care of the retards,

then it’s just white on blacks in the streets.

Then there’ll be 197 million.

I tell them that.

 

So they write it up

and I come off looking like some kind of clown,

like Hitler himself. I’m not that lucky,

but I got my own authority.

It is in my spit-shined oxfords,

in the perfectly quaffed meadows of my brilliant head.

 

I look in the mirror and grab my mangled balls,

only the foreskin left, sagging down low,

I know it’s a crushed sack,

but suck my balls anyway.

I’m writing the final rung for the master race,

my face scraped orange and refined.

I’m your baby, America, your king,

high on my own drool, I am goddamned fuckin’ godly.

 

And I was born

and raised

right here.

 

 

 

By Cynthia Suarez

(Inspired by Patricia Smith’s “Skinhead”)

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