Fire in Belgrade

______________________

Then choose the black
Of sorrow and blood
Of poverty that runs univocal
From El Alto to East Saint Louis,
From the mountains around La Paz in Bolivia
Where the Indian women stand still for hours
Waiting for nothing, for the saints or bandits,
For the return of Che,
And the children barefoot and hungry
Seek alms from the shadows and walls.
Up to the southern borders of industrialized
Illinois, along the waters of Mississippi,
To the gates of Missouri, not so far,
This time, from the World Bank headquarters.
There 90% of the population is black
And poor, often without water and electricity,
And the children, in the middle of capital,
Leave school early to help at home, dreaming
Of a better future as workers in a pizzeria, forgetting
Or completely unaware of the structural adjustment programs
That the Bank disseminates in the world
To impoverish them deeper, not only in their bodies,
But in their spirits also and in their minds.
This poverty runs univocal in the Americas and in the world.
Like the being of Duns Scotus, simply present, it’s concretized
In these feverish eyes, in these skinny arms, in this swollen
Stomach of air and worms, in this twisted, sad mouth
Without its beautiful teeth. Meanwhile, managers, in business
And in the academies, theorize and practice the law
Of the free market, the free flow of money,
This money of blood and labor. Even Marxists,
Turned ignorant by the plague of indifference,
That burns in universities and in the world,
Align themselves to the cruel law of surplus-value,
And become blind to the reality of exploitation,
That some eliminate as a simple mistake,
Others weaken with wit and sophistry.
Thus, they replace the destruction of the law of value,
The abolition of money and productive labor,
The liberation of time and creative doing
With a vague economy of desire,
A society more feverish with consumption
And the elitist right to appropriate the superfluous.
While the children of El Alto die,
And the children of East Saint Louis grow up without books.
They too grow in blindness, unable to see the wrong
That takes over the determinant motors of being,
Seen here and there in the fragments of a truth
Stronger than the homogenous, crushing thought
That negates it; in the papers, for instance,
The mouthpiece of Wall Street, that reported
On July 15, 1998, without comment, without shame,
The position of vulgar Madeleine Albright
On American Indians and other indigenous groups.
And I quote: “Secretary of State Albright
Assured American Indians and other indigenous
Groups that their rights would be protected under
An international treaty, signed by the US,
That is designed to protect the world’s disappearing
Plant and animal species.” This is why, Giorgio,
I address you, among others,
It’s impossible to believe the bombs were humanitarian
That the year after destroyed Belgrade. Because at the center
Of capital, and of the State that governs and is governed by it,
Posited is not freedom, nor is it joy, but negation, violence,
Necessity of bloodshed, immense sadness, and the rhetoric
That to imprisoned, tired eyes then renders
Everything different and weak.


New York, October 2000
Translated by Rosemary Manno
and the author
From Figures of a Foreign Land;
previously appeared in Left Curve.