400 Years and $100 Trillion Later, This Is What We Get
by Douglas Mercer
SHE’S YOUNG and she’s jet black! She’s beautiful! — that is, if you like that Lower Paleolithic look. She’s Black and she’s a poet! Why, she’s the Black Shakespeare! Better than Shakespeare really, because he’s a dead White male whose poetry reinforced narratives of domination (so they say, and they have lots of letters after their names). They dress this non-entity up like the queen of Wakanda, and shove her down our throats because we are guilty of the “sin” of being White. They splash her ugly mug across magazine covers. Heck, they even had the hulking, knuckle-dragging Michelle Obama interview her in Time magazine. Here she is at the “inaugural” — there she is at the Super Bowl — reciting her juvenile doggerel like it’s worth the time it takes to hear it. And now we have sixty years of this tedium to look forward to, any time the NAACP gives its award to the one Negro male who actually raised his kids she’ll be there — with a bad poem in tow, getting all the plaudits of our ruling class.
Just like Jews pump up and insanely overinflate the merits of Jew artists (see Rothko and his simplistic spots), before you know it she’ll be required reading in high schools (don’t send your children to public schools, folks — do anything to avoid this). But despite this marketing blitz, every sane man can see she’s just a talentless Black hack foisted on us because she’s (wait for it)… Black. It’s expected now in our new era: A.F (After Floyd).
She’s Amanda Gorman. And she’s bad, bad, bad. (And not in the Black sense meaning, appropriately, “good.”) Just as you can put lipstick on a pig and it remains a pig, you can toss superlatives at a Negro and it changes absolutely nothing. For her style she adopts the easily mimicked rap- and Black-inflected cadences of slam poetry, and the reason they call it slam poetry is because after listening to its staccato monotony you want to slam your head against a wall.
Better it was when we had august American poets like Ezra Pound who got on the radio in Italy during the War and spoke against the evil Allies. Who never liked that Joosevelt guy. Or like T.S. Eliot who warned Americans to keep out the Jews, who wrote of them as slumlords squatting in their run-down tenements. Those were the days, lads. Let’s make some new days, soon.
In one picture, Gorman is holding a caged bird, a nod I guess to that other poet of negritude, that big stinking pile of all things worthless and African, Maya Angelou. It was this latter joke who Bill Clinton tapped in 1992 to give his inaugural “poem.” In order to celebrate the recently minted ideology of multiculturalism she vomited out a list:
So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew
The African and Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher.
Now I know why the caged bird wants to blow its brains out.
For all intents and purposes Angelou might as well have said the Black, the slack, the jack, the whack, the crack, the hack, though in that case there might have been murmurs in polite society.
Exactly twenty-eight years later the childish utterances of Gorman were no better:
We are striving to forge our union with purpose.
To compose a country committed to all cultures, colors, characters and conditions of man.
And so we lift our gaze, not to what stands between us, but what stands before us.
We close the divide because we know to put our future first, we must first put our differences aside.
We lay down our arms so we can reach out our arms to one another.
Disgraced the country, she did, with this cliché-ridden gobbledygook.
And putting our differences aside? Rich indeed coming from a fulsome fan of Black Lives Matter. They’re about as likely to put aside their differences as lawyers are to put aside fees. They don’t want peace; they want war. And anyway the differences between Black and White are so large that neither thermonuclear fusion nor a thousand years of eugenics could remove them.
But the stifling mediocrity (at best) of this banal drone did not stop a book consisting of just this meager “poem” from shooting to the top of the bestseller lists. You can just see some Marin White woman displaying it proudly on her coffee table, the message being “I just love those nice Black people.” Don’t want to live near them, but love them I do.
The “book” even had a foreword by that ever-ballooning biomass called Oprah, the one who said a down-on-his-luck White man in the heartland, who lost his job to outsourcing, who sees coal-black invaders in his former White haven, and whose neighbors’ and relatives’ sons and daughters are hooked on fentanyl (thanks, Jews!) “has privilege,” whereas her obese billionaire self most definitely does not.
The reviews of the slim volume are in:
“Stunning” — CNN
“Dynamic” — NPR
“Mind-lockingly dull” — Me
Not to be outdone by anyone in its slavishness to the Negro, Amazon is peddling several books by this blunderkind, including an Amanda Gorman-inspired (insipid really) day planner. What a world.
To join the chorus of kneelers and profiteers, a genetically inferior mongrel named Afdhel Aziz (no, really that’s his name) flew a banner headline in Forbes magazine that read: “6 Essential Mindset Shifts for 21st Century Leaders in Amanda Gorman’s ‘The Hill We Climb’ Poem.” It’s wise to remember that Malcolm Forbes, founder of that hypercapitalist magazine, was an infamous queer, and when his goofy son ran for president he had to answer for the fact that on his yacht was some — shall we say — rectally-focused “artwork” by Robert Mapplethorpe. What disgusting pigs these people are.
Since the inauguration farce, Gorman has signed a deal with IMG Models so now she’ll disgrace the pages of “our” fashion magazines. She has two more “books” in her publisher’s clutches — and a million copies of each have reportedly already been printed. How tragicomic are the late, cancerous stages of what was once a great nation before the Jews arrived.
After her horrific national debut, lisping White man James Corden had her on his show and nearly fainted with ecstasy, or pretended to, when introducing her. Then she said that mincing Corden was her “favorite human being ever” and the two proceeded act like two cats in heat before Corden said “thank you” ten times.
For her inaugural underperformance she wore jewelry given to her by the aforementioned Oprah, and then the raves came in from Bill and Hillary Clinton, Barack and Michelle Obama, and the ever-egregious simplistic beat poet Lin Manuel Miranda whose sole claim to fame is besmirching the Founders by making them Black.
Did I mention that this hyper-inflated non-entity was interviewed by the hulking Michelle Obama in Time magazine? Which for Africans is like getting knighted by the cannibal witch doctor among a tribe that knows nothing of knights. The big husky dude lobbed the skinny nothing a whole lot of softball questions mainly about how there’s lately been a “renaissance” of Blackness — which must be news to non-political, non-showbiz, non-elite-connected Blacks huddling on the floors of their slum apartments as the bullets whir by.
The non-poet told the burly lady that we are living in an important moment in Black life, though a really important moment in Black life would be when they’d shut their mouths and take responsibility for the havoc they wreak and say thanks to the White man for lifting them out of unremitting savagery. She says Black Lives Matter is the “great social movement of our day,” and at their rallies she saw banners that read: “You buried us but did not know we were seeds.” Not true of course: We’ve always known they were the wolf we held by the ears — and the only way to avoid the rage, the hate, the fangs would be to send them back to Africa. Short of that, they’re seeds all right — evil seeds of future discord.
Much of the evil nonsense that flourishes today can be directly traced back to one phrase from the 1980s: dead White males. The artificially created Poetess Laureate passes along this vicious lie:
Where we run into trouble is often we are looking through such a tight pinhole of what poems can be. Specifically we’re looking at dead white men. Those are the poems that are taught in school and referred to as classics. We really need to break out of the pathology that poetry is only owned by certain elites.
Where we can start is highlighting and celebrating poets who reflect humanity in all of its diverse colors and breadth.
We all know that great literature is the preserve of the Aryan race; that’s why they carp at it so much.
And at the Sportsball festival recently, which was a celebration of all things Black, but where that Aryan quarterback made them cry, Miz Gorman was again front and center. Her “poem” showed that she loves masks and basically was an attempt to shore up the Establishment’s lies about “health.” Beyond that it is not worth mentioning, which did not stop the empty-headed glitterati and their Hebrew handlers from drooling all over themselves in praise of their newly famous fetchit.
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Now if they had just plucked some Black high schooler who had won a local poetry award, placed her on the stage, let her croak, and then clap for a day or two — well, whatever. It would of course be obnoxious, but these people have such a paucity of things to cheer about it’s best from time to time to let them grasp at their scraps. But this is much more. After the inaugural, a cartoon came out with Ms. Gorman shown kitted out in her best duds and smiling — while carrying in her arms a limp and weak Uncle Sam, all battered and bruised. If they were honest, they’d have Uncle Sam on his knees being kicked in the head by this archetypal hominid. But they are not honest. They are liars. And that’s the future: being kicked in the face by this manufactured “international superstar” whiles she recites her insufferable banalities and lectures you about “racism” — forever.
And she will be around forever (until the Revolution, that is), rapping with P Diddy, discussing slavery with Henry Gates, and windsailing with the Gay Mulatto. It’s all a fantasy with them; take a pathetically unskilled and naîve cipher and next thing you know she’s hobnobbing with Corey Booker’s fake girlfriend. You know how the delusion goes, the Egyptians were Black; Blacks created civilization; Blacks put the White man on the Moon!
But the truth is often painful. You can put lipstick on swine, but they are still swine.
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Well before the likes of Angelou and Gorman were invited to spout rotten rhymes at inaugurals, back when America was still a White man’s country, when this nation still respected itself and its past — back in 1960, another president asked another poet — Robert Frost — to recite one of his works — “The Gift Outright” — on January 20. Ah, those were the days.
The land was ours before we were the land’s
She was our land more than a hundred years
Before we were her people. She was ours
In Massachusetts, in Virginia,
But we were England’s, still colonials,
Possessing what we still were unpossessed by,
Possessed by what we now no more possessed.
Something we were withholding made us weak
Until we found out that it was ourselves
We were withholding from our land of living,
And forthwith found salvation in surrender.
Such as we were we gave ourselves outright
(The deed of gift was many deeds of war)
To the land vaguely realizing westward,
But still unstoried, artless, unenhanced,
Such as she was, such as she will become.
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Those who gave nothing, those who only take, and those who “always take,” are now in possession — and they must be dispossessed of what is not theirs.
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