I have to wonder tonight about whether The Times Literary Supplement would today publish my friend Dawn Potter’s piece of 2016— concerning “the humanity” of the Trump voter. For one thing, Trump voters have morphed into a cult of Trump defenders. Potter’s thesis that the working poor unlike liberal elites are anchored to place doesn’t entirely hold water for me, likely because I come from white educated pioneers whose identities were bound up with the Southwest and with New England, multi-culturalist globalists before their time who valued place and diversity together. But I take her point to heart that it has to matter that we remember our common humanity.
Even so, with the NYT on my side today, Trump’s so-called “base,” rageful because his rage gives all of them permission to morph into gorillas on acid, is jam-packed with “inglorious” bastards, rife with gun-packing paranoid backwater types who for one reason or another feel he speaks their language as opposed to the refined brilliance of Obama, whom they despised as only white supremacists can and whose analytical mind, its value and that he was to be respected and treasured, was deeply threatening–to already perverse, even criminal types like Roy Moore, like Jim Jordan, legislative bane of paranoia minus intellect.
How any percentage of Republican college-educated voters can in conscience support Trump is baffling. For we the educated, everything about Donald Trump is deeply offensive and his demolition and gutting of every American convention from diplomacy to Western alliances to purposefully porous borders, enraging. So it is that like Dracula, he sinks his vitriol-laced teeth into our necks, and we become like him.
Last I heard the Brits are planning to fly a diapered Trump balloon, comb-over and all, over Parliament for his state visit–and worse, are rumored to be storing bottles of urine to piss-bomb his motorcade.
These are the people who brought us Downton Abbey and Call the Midwife and the wondrous sexy Poldark. The Royal Weddings and the Royal Births, Queen Elizabeth’s house rules on decorum, Duchess Meghan’s “monarch-length” veil.
How we thirst for decorum, tradition, the beautiful stillness of the cathedrals upholding the Anglican tradition as was the case at the latest royal wedding. I was uncomfortable with the evangelizing antics of the U.S.’s black leading “primate”– I kid you not– this is what the C of E/Anglican Communion calls bishops– he was an embarrassment to me with his shuck and jive rap on love love love in the nave.
But I digress yet again. When you watch any given Trump rally, especially last week’s Montana rant n’ ramble, your blood pressure climbs until sweating, you feel your brain in a vice.
I have been driven to the PC again and again to pound out posts and poems, ironically, over the heinous pogrom against Latin American Asylum seekers, some of my best work.
I have incrementally lost my tolerance for the fact that my publisher, a small house in Ireland, posts things Trump says and does and factoids like 30% of Americans don’t believe in the Holocaust.
For on her home page, responses to her post reveal not only rampant hatred of Trump Supporters, but scorn directed against Americans in general. I happened to run across some of the American-bashing, as an American poet whose ms she had accepted to bring out in 2019.
Now, I have determined that if she is going to let other writers on her list and other Irish friends rant on her page without at least trying to keep the press’s immediate milieu a tolerant one in which she observes a boundary between bashing Trump and we who endure him, I don’t want my collection Mysterium, a finalist for the Autumn House Poetry Prize in 2014, many of the poems in which appeared in the ‘zine Vox Populi published by Michael Simms, see daylight via her press.
Even as I make this painful decision, watching Trump gin up his “base” of the unlikely mix of rich evangelicals and people one can only call in all due sincerity, cracker trash, and how his insane behavior has inflamed liberals, plunging many of us into alternating rage and anguish, I see how successful he has been at making Americans less American– less tolerant, less forgiving, less circumspect, less rational.
One opportunity Trump has created has been to challenge those of us with hot tempers to begin to question the efficacy of rage and whether or not throwing figurative bottles of piss at him does anything for our own souls, even as outrage burns in us.
The Europeans have gone low at the other end of High Street. They are in a white-hot state; they have no trouble believing that Trump works for Putin, that he is the bottom to Putin’s top, per the German float I saw of a Russian bear sodomizing a crouching pres. .
The Trump as baby balloon and the lurid float have arisen over populist rage at how Trump has scorned our allies and inflicted torment on immigrants. As he will not be met with an honor guard in England but a rageful English public, will he go?
My own rage, deepened and more problematic directly because we are hostage to one sick motherfucker with no business in the White House, has taken me to dark places. It may yet take me to more. I am fortunate that I find some relief, housebound as I am, in my creative work, where my persona can take out Air Force One with an RPG in my latest poem; I can have an imaginative catharsis of sorts.
But how many such diversions can keep us from one day soon, throwing any effort to remain calm, disaffected, boundaried by civility, out the window.
We watch the Republicans together with the Trump voters fly to his defense when in fact he commits the indefensible every day, many times over.
Trump is a man who hates his country and himself. He takes us to a terrifying promontory where we don’t care about his wounds, where we don’t want to understand him; we just want him to evaporate. We want someone ready to avenge the droning of his sister’s wedding party outside Kabul to deliver this animal to Allah.
Particularly what he has done to children, the subterfuge and cruelty of his behavior, that immigrants and asylum seekers are infestations that will breed so that MS13 gangs will rape and murder your mother or your sister, has afflicted me with something I have not known, a pure kind of hatred and revulsion.
Trey Gowdy, Jim Jordan, Devin Nunes and company, Giuliani and Dershowitz, are all about protecting him.
How is this justifiable within or without the prism of rage? Even as I have a personal mandate to be more loving and tolerant within my family and circle of friends, I want to garrote Trump with piano wire. I would pay to see him dead in the street.
It is past time for Mueller to show his hand. But will this Congress, so blindly protective of this disgusting beast, step up? Will they impeach?
If not, and we devolve to all fours in pure animal blood lust, all will be lost. God herself will foam at the mouth and bay at the moon.