#60, November 22nd, 2004

The All-Time Winningest President

This poem was begun in the 1980s when the Reagan Presidency seemed to be putting the idea of an Imperial Presidency back on track, when the dual effects of Watergate and Vietnam were beginning to wear off. When Bush invaded Iraq I began to dust it off and rework the poem in accordance with the realization that W’s administration made the Teflon Presidency of Reagan look amateur by comparison. The poem was about to be consigned to the dustbin of history, where most things end, when Bush’s resurrection in the 2004 Presidential Election cemented his position as the All-time Winningest President. I first heard this grammatically dubious term in connection with Tom Landry, who, back in the early 1980s, was described frequently as the All-Time Winningest Coach in the NFL. The idea stuck with me as appropriate (as so much about American Football is) for thinking about the Presidency. This was clearly the case in this last presidential contest. It was not important what was revealed about Bush’s presidency – the mismanagement, the corruption, the lies – it was just important to his supporters that their man keep up his winning record. With the help of some phenomenal play calling by Karl Rove, he did. Hurrah!

The All-Time Winningest President

He placed pontoons over the oceans,

as if they were liberty’s statues

laying down for a rest,

or erect phalli

preparing to swamp the world

with American sperm

(uniformed men, carrying M-16 rifles

and the Bible of consumerism,

chanting, like a worn-out PS2:

“America, right or wrong,

we’ll sing our song,

and fight our wars

on other shores”).

He provided black cannon fodder

to pay for a trip to Versailles,

where he could drink cocktails with the best company,

acquire some European culture

(shell-casings painted blue),

and, one almost forgets,

make the world safe:

Make the world safe for democracy.

Make the world safe for plutocracy.

Make the world safe for white supremacy.

Make the world safe.

Make the world shave its legs,

Make the world shed its dregs,

Make, make, make,

Make the world share

one last explosive orgasm.

He did not like the names

Hiroshima and Nagasaki

though he cannot recall

what was done about this.

Perhaps he offered up new names

like Church Hill and Trumanton,

but history does not relate

(instead, we hear,

he became high

on magic mushrooms,

and made joints

from fall-out and tobacco

to share with an overworked

Secretary of State).

He had an affair

on the South China Sea,

at a picturesque little resort,

paying his bill

in the remembrances

of those living amidst the scarred landscape

and the children left behind

to face the wrath of his surrogates.

And the world’s legitimate sons

have been sold in the market-place

or reduced to a dependence

on American wheat,

watching abundance from Hollywood,

dancing to the American beat.

“But the market remains sound,”

we hear.

Let us bow our heads

and give thanks,

Decaying dreams dreaming decay.

Jefferson is a fraud,

dressed in slave-produced cotton,

riding his horse up and down history

as if he owns the goddamn place.

And why does Mr. Washington

encamp his army

on the banks of the Schuylkill?

– a revolutionary knows no personal gain!

John Brown’s soul

forces Lincoln’s hand,

and the idea of fighting

for ol’ Uncle Tom

stumbles after the thought

of a handsome profit.

And then comes dashing Teddy,

getting his kicks rough riding,

all in the pursuit of imperial leather.

And the procession continues

with actors and oil men

chanting as they go:

I ran to the oil fields

I rack a dictator

I remove a black Bishop

And install a pawn later

O, Panama’s no place

for a King-pin to go down.

But now we spy on the largest steed

the All-Time Winningest President –

with fresh mandate from the highest court –

putting aside leather

for the crusader’s cross,

humbling Congress,

the people, and the world,

as if they were out-of-work grave diggers

looking for employ

in the growing supply from his demands.

“Love it or leave it,”

the car stickers say.

“Bomb evil-doers,

the al-Qa'ida way.”

And so let the base

become our superstructure.

American dream vanishing

into Civilization’s melting-pot;

history remembered

like the migraine by a drunken sot.

Decaying dreams’ dream of decay,

decaying dreams’ dream of decay.

III At the grave of Thomas Paine

A visit to New Rochelle

when the leaves, turning brown,

are falling to the ground

like rats leaving a sinking ship.

We calm our consciences

over the grave

of a one-time friend

of some common sense

whom we condemned

to placate the money changers.

We circle the grave

representing France, America,

France, America,

America, France,

and all the Haitis in-between.

We read aloud a passage

from our Savior’s testimony,

gagging on the words,

unable to stomach the implications.

Decaying dreams dream their decay,

decaying dreams dream their decay,

decaying dreams dream their decay.

IV “He dreams of scaffolds as he smokes his houka.”

You smell of deceit –

the aroma of some costly perfume,

with sweet relaxing scent,

masking your ragged, turgid skin,

and all those marks of your complicity.

You wear the blinkers of self-interest,

hiding from you the “rabid”, “turbid” masses

(in their own aroma-filled worlds),

breaking out in spots

of terroristic self-destruction.

But beneath the waving flags,

amidst the talk of Civilization

and its discontents,

there is another more earthly scene:

the neatly lined up corpses,

numbered dog-tags on each left big-toe,

lying stretched out like a warm blanket

soaking up a pool of congealing idealism:

decaying dreams’ dream of decay,

decay and dreams dream their decay,

decaying dreams

dreaming decay.