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Der Drumpt's Wall

963

USA Really presents the poem applied for The Global Democracy Award (The Nathanael West nominee).

“Up the street, an infernal messenger just flew by,

flanked by curdling cries of Heil! Concealed

like the Wagnerian orchestra pit”

The Hitlerian Spring by Eugenio Montale

“And I will show you something different from either

Your shadow at morning striding behind you

The Wasteland by T.S. Eliot

I.

Heil Hitler-style, my American Faux Fuhrer…

You fading blood-star,

derivative Mussolini Poster Boy --

How shall I pose you for posterity?

An updated farce for Hadrian’s Wall—

Vallum Aellum — Jackboot, plastic pedestal,

you consummate stonewaller.

Your static garrisons, concentration camps and NATO ports,

a panorama of perfectly correct fascist salutes

from the banks of the Rio Grande

to the River Tyne.

While the American Barbarian wants a Wall

to keep everyone in except union workers,

artists, lovers, people of various conquered lands,

All the castouts, Palestinians, Muslims, Hispanics, Latinos

and Blacks that defy his way —

Aloof corporate killer.

In Roman garb - suit and tie - he swaggers on stage,

Hollywood style...

The Wall builder's a mirror of who they are –

Americans pandering to a faux emperor,

like debris floating in the Tiber. They are Caligula fans—

they, who will vaporize in a nuclear blast,

whimpering about the white, mushroom light,

As the Capitol burns, burning, burning.

What Romanticism will they convey about us,

blather and prattle about the erstwhile county we claimed?

Corinthian pillars, the Greek experience, slavish praise

for ‘Democracy’ we touted to the world,

Senate, Congress, a body of their seduction bought

or sold, their endless wars a bloody sedition,

We who lived were nothing

but paralyzed laboratory specimens,

motionless rats, waiting to be swallowed

by the sluggish cat

with his purring traps,

mouth asnarl in this fetid kingdom.

Walls, Walls, Walls, we lived amid these Walls,

burying each other alive in Walls.

II.

In springtime the Wall was built,

the people brought flowers,

songs for the man with hair spun from a dead animal.

Prophets from Wall Street came

grasping their horoscopes.

I, a subtle observer among the crowd, cough a bit,

smile surreptitiously, and walk away.

We who never knew peace,

Syria, Egypt with its dead queens, burning in the night wind…

How could I cry, when you, citizen, could not?

Prisoners marching in broken rows, shuffling to the camps.

No one speaks, no one speaks.

Summer comes with its unbearable heat.

We whine unquenchably for water,

cure and comfort in our despair.

Then autumn lingers, cascading leaves drop

like lifeless bodies upon a Wall.

Nuclear winter after the firestorms,

the Wall speaks sermons in concrete amid firestorm-soot,

Smoke and gasses swirl in the snow,

We choke on the spittle of our vanity

and conceit.

Are we aware our lover died near the Wall?

The clash of winds, we hear them sing with nostalgia

where the Wall has cracked.

III.

Oh Polybius, ghostly old historian, you walk among us,

witnessing sacked Carthage within our Walls,

wrapped in hooded night.

What wise words might you convey?

Historian of the ancient school,

I can hear your dictates about factual inquiry,

vindictive bones, the Wall built in fantasy or reality

along the border oozing with dew, and bodily fluids,

this Wall, our ruin.

American cities and small towns praise their faux Fuhrer,

master of fake news, raising their voices in song,

The Americans who gathered at the voting polls,

would do it again for their balconied god,

fattening up on the swill, rants and cheers

from the streets while television screens flicker and glare

in the rapidly dimming sunlight.

And yet, I hear another song … Dans le Vermont

je vois des faucons volent dans les forêts,

où il n'y a pas de mur.

A Wall which was once, and is, speech,

Walls to kill us in our dreams at night,

Walls to hover along the gullies with such

transcendent beauty in Spain

and Italy, where multitudes of people live in peace,

or who lived in peace for centuries.

That Wall – war– broken upon the ground of liberty,

What we want:

bread, land and civil peace.

That bone-chilling cold winter evening,

where the solitary man walks

along Hadrian’s Wall thinking of his lover,

before she died,

before he told her he loved her near that Wall.

Author: Luis Lázaro Tijerina