Donald F. Fitzgerald


Steadfast Linne, staring southwards over the botanical-zoological 
Grounds of Lincoln Park, reigns from atop his pedestal, while 
Industrial maidens surround his feet with absent arms (oh reader, 
he’s moving going going gone).  Trees, some sturdy some feeble, 
Line the charming passage that stretches forth over the grounds.  
Flowers at its side, birds flying overhead, and people afoot on 
Warm summer days.  Wintertime commands these same sidewalks with 
Burning blustering winds and cold wet snowfalls.  Yet, throughout 
This sceneshaking the bark of the seal can be heard.  Along this 
Pleasant sunny promenade, from the late Linne, lounges Willie 
The Hamlet, blindly gazing easterly at the vegetarian mosque of 
chicago, an ancient structure of splashed whitewash on glass.  
There he sits, bemused, a lord of art, ‘till a smart lass saunters 
By and he; Are thee fair, you, who lightly goes there?. . .
On my way to the lakefront, through park and by statue, musing 
By day, how you, oh reader, shall receive this preamble.

Ye gods and goddesses of america, hark unto me as I prey upon 
Thine wallets, that ye may heare and understand this diatribe.  
I took my stand against thy holy city chicago and stomped its 
Sandy winded brow, while watching westerly, ye gods, your supplicants 
Savagely submitting to thy gifts.  To the great god mammon, who 
So generally and generously presses whatness upon human souls; 
I am unimpressed by thy sound or thy sanctity.  To the great 
Goddess mother-object, who so faithfully bears the millions of 
Objects which captivate soul after senseless soul;  I have grown 
Weary of thy infinite procession of off-spring.  To divine-sprite 
fraud, who’s omnipresence is second only to mother-object's 
Fertillity, here be thy epithet;  Assist thy neophyte in his years
Of want.  May he never have his brother do unto him what he has 
Done unto his brother and may the good lad lose.  Now rise from 
Thy shadowy domain, demi-goddess failure, empress to the path of
Pity and receive from thy worshipper’s lip accolades of love: 
May bucks continue to fill thy shrine as you lie with mother-object 
And may thy couplings be sanctified by fraud.       $ men.                                          


A setting sun slowly begins to animate the sky overhead and my 
Rounds come to an end.  I return to the city (oh reader, there are 
those who don’t believe in just fraud, but just robbery).  I 
Return by way of the steeled bridge that gently curves over a 
Teeming stream of metal, the outer drive roadway.  Hurrying over 
This spectacle, I begin to cross the clearing at the base of the 
Bridge.  As I do so, my attention is grabbed by a small reflecting 
Orb that rests upon the up-turned turf.  The skies begin to darken. 
I stop and discern a small coin lying there extreme, as the moon 
Would in dark heaven.  I pick the cold coin up, a dime, 1926.  The 
Other impressions stamped upon it are as legible.  I put it into 
My pocket and continue on into the city and to my apartment.


Evening subdues chicago, as house lamps signal through the dark, 
beaming at my northern window. Some citizens begin the arduous 
Task of spending their leisure under the all-seeing eye of 
Street lights.  I sit at my table, lamp ablaze, with Vico’s 
Science before me, exercising my nightly rite of study.  The room 
Is filled with books, radio music and cigarette smoke.  I usually 
Begin pondering my illusionary writing career and conclude this 
Meditation thinking of those I have unwittingly attended, in one 
Masque or another.  No more shall I bear their 
Cries or rebuffs, aid their egos or sustain their ambitions: 
I am through with their flat world of infantile reaction.  I 
Command all of my energies to the study of letters and as the 
Finality of that study, artistic creations worthy to be called 
Literature.  Thus shall chicago have a mirror from which it can 
Note its disfiguration (oh reader, forgive the nightly pose, Vico 
is hardly studied).  So, with this declaration, I withdraw from 
The revelry of bed and bar and take to my room in ascetic austerity,  
Renouncing, denying, disclaiming, disorderly ways and dispel from my realm 
The imps of chicago.  To its punchy wasted face, I speak with a steady 
Steeled stare:  My contempt is yours for all times!!


As for the petti literati of chicago, our public giants/cerebral 
Dwarfs:  Your contemptuous art is demanded by those captivated souls 
Who yearn for mediocrity /commonality.  Continue on the beat, you’ll 
Receive living expenses for heralding their herdish pleasures,  
Their approval should cover your social security.  To their sisters-in-charm, 
who breeze along amidst dostoeveskian hues, dining on the word:  
It has been said, that the world is a stage; suffering, then, is 
Also presented by an impresario . . . .

I, as a wheel rolling of itself, leave this stillborn nation of 
Deadening change (oh reader, did you see the moving statue?) and 
Go to the land of my forefathers to live, to create and to die.  
I reject the odorless orders and bloody rituals of your heavenly house.

         Donald F. Fitzgerald
                            March 7, 1976
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Class of '64
Downtown Dublin 1999
Next to the James Joyce statue. 
The best trip I ever had.
March 07, 1946 - October 14, 2018