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 odourless orders and bloody rituals of your heavenly house.

   Donald F. Fitzgerald
    March 7, 1976
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