Democracy, from Heimat
The quality of the outside light is shifting,
a chilly glare thawing to something brighter,
something softer, something slowly drifting
into a Maxfield Parrish glow, a hint
at least. The pulse picks up. The head gets lighter
as something like romance scents the cloying air.
A coming fling? It isn't that at all.
No woman waits behind a brownstone's stoop.
It's something else. I'll let you in the loop:
I'm thinking of New York some time last fall.
Cue "Rhapsody in Blue." You know the plot,
the sun that glistens on the Midtown spires,
even from Brooklyn, a helicopter shot
for yet another film not worth twelve dollars.
Down here, the streets are plastered up with fliers,
and buses bear announcements on their sides
for that race thing they've got going on
with TV crews and Ethiopians,
a thousand masochistic diet plans--
the annual New York City Marathon.
And as the runners line up at the markers,
a shot goes off, and so the race begins.
Surging to the front, completely starkers,
runs Mr. Pheidippides, the pride of Athens,
hurtling forward to the cheers and grins
of bearded hoplites lined up on the sidewalk
waving spears and dressed in battle kit,
ululating, iron swords half-bared.
(A Persian clot around the block looks scared.)
"Go Pheidippides!" He'll do his bit
for city, citizens--and for the world.
"Historical" as a term has been debased,
thrown at pop-star slags du jour and hurled
at sit-com episodes, but this is real,
even if, I know, it's just a race.
Pheidippides, of course, is representing
the piss-ant hamlet and the adrenal gland
that goes berserk when tax-men are onsite,
bearing bills, affecting shows of might.
"Pay up, and I'll leave." "No, bitch! Git off my land!"
It lasts all day, circling Central Park
and weaving through the outer boroughs. Yet
our hero stays out front until the dark
advances from Long Island in a gloom
that's subtle and somehow funereal
even on an ancient TV set.
The leader's clear. "But at what price?" we wonder.
No matter, since our runner has got thick skin
(he'd have to, after all)--and he will win
despite a hint of rain and distant thunder.
Pheidippides finishes the run and greets
his waving fans with a classic shtick--
grasping at his bleeding, ruined feet,
gasping for breath even as he's moaning,
Come on, you pervs, stop staring at my dick!
The film is rolling, and the journalists
ask him questions as he's in convulsions
from his fatal victory--his thoughts
about New York (his throat's done up in knots;
can barely breathe). But still, their crass compulsions
drive them to shout their questions, and he cries,
Leave me alone. I've got somewhere to be!
"We're trying to observe. What do you see?"
I need some rest. This pace is killing me!
"Just an impression's really all we ask."
The runner's angry, but he takes the task
with a caterwauling heart, and brokenly,
he gives an answer for Democracy.
A new imperial city, set
along a river, with a view
of skyscrapers for the ziggurats,
steeples for sacrificial fires.
Here, there are taxis, columned banks,
light-bathed arenas, cramped, dark flats,
swells of noise, and troops in stations.
I'm always running, moving through
the likes of you, a mass of suits
and work clothes, trying to keep ahead
of something that we can't control
as slogans lash us to the fray.
See the world and find yourself,
the few, the proud, and Semper Fi!
Join today! Take up the gun!
Injured on the job? Feel trapped
in your career? Are you in debt?
Just call this number to enroll.
Se habla Español. Call now.
A beggar with a matted beard
and old fatigues, caked up with mud,
raves about a distant war
and hikes his shirt to show the wound
and beg for money. "Motherfucking
politicians! I was in 'Nam.
They sat on their asses. Sacks of shit.
I'm hungry. Can you spare some change?"
Pheidippides ends abruptly as he hacks
a gob of blood at a woman's business suit.
She looks up, shocked. The runner's breath is back,
if only for a moment, and he roots
around for words. Sorry! I didn't see ya.
I was lost in thought on Seleucia...
Stratum on stratum, jumbled up,
found accidentally in sand,
abandoned even by the mud
along the Tigris's shifting banks.
From up above, the naked eye
can't see its grid-iron city plan,
its palaces, its bustling markets...
or guess its sack and slow decline.
"Pray that the road is long," as long
as earth is round. Odysseus
never made it there; his "stop
at Phoenician markets" ended soon.
But no Penelope awaited
the conquerors of desert sands.
Beguiled by landlocked Circes, they
forgot the modest palaces
their two-bit fathers had bequeathed
to them, the heirs of Macedon.
City of the Hellenes! Out there,
the caryatids seemed to sweat
in unrelenting sun like tourists
bearing guidebooks, taking shots
of peasants in their native garb
while shouting in a foreign tongue
for burgers, french fries, Diet Coke,
a front-row seat, and brash burlesque,
a city of expats, dropping cash
on drink and ostentatious mansions.
But in the countryside, dark eyes
stared hatred at the palaces,
places of taxes, foreigners,
and poets of a later year
would speak of Ozymandias
and all he'd wrought--or said he'd wrought--
on some blank, forsaken ground.
The tabloid vultures won't let up, of course.
"But how'd you do it, Pheidi? What's your trick
for winning races with a flapping dick?"
I dunno. It helps if you're a hick.
And then our hero turns Historical.
His eyes roll back; the crowd's hysterical,
and paramedics crowd around his head.
Tomorrow's headline: "Pheidippides is dead!"
They search for steroids. The coroner says, "He's clean!"
and so the editorials all start
wondering what all the verse could mean,
and why the jock had said what he had said
before he died. The story falls apart
and leaves the front page, then abandons sports,
pushing him into vaguest memory
along with a folded copy of a map
of the race's route that settles in the gap
of a sofa. So much for democracy.
Quincy Lehr's poetry and criticism have been published in numerous print and online journals in North America, Europe, and Australia, including Rattle, The Stinging Fly, New Walk, Measure, Contemporary Poetry Review, and The Dark Horse. He is the author of two books, Across the Grid of Streets (2008) and Obscure Classics of English Progressive Rock (2012), as well as the forthcoming Shadows and Gifts (2012) from Barefoot Muse Press. He is a co-host of the long-running Carmine Street Metrics poetry series, and he has been the associate editor of The Raintown Review since 2008. He lives in Brooklyn, perhaps inevitably, where he teaches history at a small liberal arts college, drinks a great deal of pretentious coffee, and lives with two cats.