In the laboratory of America
something crawled out backward
through the evolutionary door
collapsing into its own hunger,
white and gleaming
like bleached bone,
mouths open wide as collection plates.
Homo regressus evangelicus
the newest mammal
to trade opposable thumbs
for the grip on a golden idol,
to forfeit the frontal lobe
for the lizard brain’s
ancient yes.
Watch them: they have learned
to kneel with locked knees,
eyes glazed as cataracts,
tongues thick with hosannas
for the orange Christ,
skin the color of spray-on divinity,
hair spun from the silk
of bankrupt casinos.
They quote Leviticus
with one hand on their daughters
and the other in their neighbor’s wallet
these people who made a sacrament
of Access Hollywood,
who heard “grab them by the pussy”
and called it locker room
psalm.
Hear this: thirty-four felonies
sound like bells in their churches.
The fraud verdict is just another hymn.
Hush money to the porn star
while the third wife
nurses the golden child
this is their nativity.
They have evolved beyond
the burden of coherence,
past the weight of shame.
E. Jean Carroll’s testimony
dissolves on their tongues
like communion wafers
they never meant to swallow.
What scripture have they written
in the dark?
Blessed are the liars,
for they shall inherit the Supreme Court.
Blessed are the cruel,
for they shall make America
bleed again.
You have seen them mock
the soldier’s widow,
the journalist’s murder,
the immigrant child in the cage
and call it strength.
We watched them bow
before the golden calf
with both hands raised,
shouting about the wall,
about the blood,
about the invasion
of anyone darker
than their imagined Jesus.
JESUS WAS BROWN!
They’re past cognitive dissonance.
This is speciation.
Tell me what you worship
and I will tell you
what you are becoming.
They worship a man
who launders scripture
through his bile-slicked mouth,
who cannot name a single verse
but signs Bibles
like pornography,
who calls himself
the chosen one
and they believe him
because belief costs less
than seeing.
Because to see him clearly
the bone spurs and the bankruptcies,
the dictators praised,
the generals scorned,
January 6th smoking
in the Capitol halls
like evidence of arson
they claim was a tour group
to see this would require
they look at themselves.
So they have devolved past mirrors.
Past Sermon on the Mount.
Past “love thy neighbor.”
Past “bear no false witness”
(while their prophet spews
thirty thousand documented lies
and they call it strategy).
Past “thou shalt not commit adultery”
They have devolved past empathy:
the sick can die without insurance,
the refugee can drown,
the trans child can disappear
as long as the judges are appointed,
as long as Roe bleeds out,
as long as power
stays white.
This is the new species:
Homo hypocritica,
Homo fascistus lite,
the primate who learned
to trade salvation
for a tax cut.
Their DNA unraveling
like the Constitution
they wipe their feet on
while screaming about patriotism.
I am naming you now,
you who chose this:
You who heard him call Mexicans rapists
and said amen.
You who watched him
simulate oral sex on a microphone
and called it charisma.
You who know
KNOW
he tried to steal an election,
incited a mob,
threatened prosecutors,
promised to be a dictator
“on day one”
and still you mark
that ballot,
cross over cross,
the evangelical X
that signs away
every value you claim
to cherish.
So here is my prayer
for the new species:
May your children ask you
what you did
in the time of cages
and you have no
good answer.
May history name you
clearly:
not the faithful,
not the righteous,
not even the misled
but the ones who saw
exactly who he was
and chose him anyway,
because he hated
the same people you did,
because in the end
you loved power
more than the God
you weaponized
to get it.
You are the new species:
Homo regressus,
crawling backward
into the swamp
you call salvation,
drowning in the bile
of your own
hatred.
That’s all from me, your turn to ask What if.
Thank you for reading my work! Hi, I’m Nicole. You can read here a bit about myself! I write poems when I’m angry, fiction when I’m hopeful, and dystopias when I’m paying attention.
If you’d like to support my writing, or my slightly unhinged hobby of feeding deer in the backyard, please consider subscribing, sharing, or becoming a paid subscriber.
And if a subscription isn’t for you, you can always use my Buy Me a Coffee link to buy the deer some fodder instead.
I am a published writer. Curriculum of Feelings is a haunting, six-part journey that spans centuries and species, a visceral exploration of the “Problem of Evil.”
Through a collection of short stories, you follow five distinct vessels: a poetess silenced by her world, a slave who finds freedom in language, a tree that witnesses history’s worst acts, a whale carrying a dying song, and a boy tracking a collapsing future. Each life is a lesson in humility, humanity, and pain.
You can buy my book on Amazon.
If you’ve liked the idea of Homo regressus evangelicus, you can now wear it, partly because it was requested, and partly because it’s a good discussion point:
If you liked The New Species, you might also like:
Whatever side of the aisle one stands on, the craft here is undeniable.
The taxonomy alone: Homo regressus evangelicus, Homo hypocritica, is sharp, almost Swiftian. You turn political rage into evolutionary satire, and that move gives the piece both distance and bite. It reads less like a rant and more like an autopsy.
There are lines that land with real poetic muscle:
“thirty-four felonies / sound like bells in their churches”
“belief costs less / than seeing”
“they have devolved past mirrors”
That’s not just polemic, that’s compression. Image doing the work argument usually tries to shout through.
What stands out most is the sustained metaphor. You commit to the species frame and carry it all the way through without losing rhythm. That’s discipline. That’s chops.
It’s ferocious, yes. But it’s also constructed: layered, patterned, intentional.
Whatever one feels about the politics, the poetry has teeth.
This is the most descriptive and powerful thing I’ve read to date. Holy shit