by Frank Weltner. All Rights Reserved.
Psalms of Other Places and Things
America, Blood and Soil
I, America, am merely blood and soil.
I am the skin which transforms body from
The bone and tissue of remorse. For some
I am no other than I am. I am
A flag, a song, a place where lovers might
Have loved inside their car. For them I am
A thing. A time. Unflattering projections such
As these make little sense. For I am blood
Of millions, strong and lean in hardened arms
And legs that march across my face and dance
Upon my enemyís unbending swords. Look here,
Upon my flesh, the whiteness of my breasts.
My hills have suckled children white as snow.
Their hearts, their strengths, their flesh, their blood, their lives...
New York is home to people without pasts.
Their mongrel skins are laced with colors not
Our own. Such souls, so Godless, not Americans.
Their strange, lost ways are mired in dark concerns.
Their lands are failures. So, they fled to this
"Grand City of the Damned." They, deep
Inside their brownness, bring dark death to our
Fair folk. I fear our festering future here
Beside their long, subversive bones. Look there,
Their hearts spew hatred toward my peopleís ways,
Steal off their futures unawares. Their snares
Have trapped those strapling souls. Now, white lads dip
Inside their muddied wombs. Their zygotes breed
Degeneration and despair. This racial death.
The Blasphemy Against the Holy Spirit
The Blasphemy of the Mentality
Of Separation lurks inside these men.
Subversion pours into our peopleís hearts
From them. Their hearts and words are filled with hate.
Some call them Bolsheviks, some Jews. Their lives
Are mixed in darkness deep, which Christ himself
Had warned against. He called them "Synagogues
Of Satan", evil men Incarnate. Poisons cast
Within the Body Politic from their own mouths
Have amplified, by media, across the land,
Their voices. Our destruction is their game. We
Are called despicable by them, we
Who gave them respite here. They plan our ruin.
These Satan Spawn are killers of their hosts.
I am the future and the past entwined.
I call to ages hence to heed my words
Or die a thousand deaths. These men who say
They love you, hate your people. They have bought
Your presses, all your eyes and ears. The songs
You listen to, theyíve likely penned for you.
All things they have prepared, a dinner fine
And pure, of poison for your peopleís lives.
No future do you have in their small eyes
Which see you as an enemy to their
Distorted view. And, so they make of you
Their love dolls. Then, they lie with you. And lie.
And lie. Your loveís dishonest. Separate
Yourself from them and live. Or die from them.
The Trojan Horses
Beware diversityís strange horror. They
Are here to kill you, make away with all
You own. Your children, white and pure, they seek
To mongrelize. They muddy them. They want
Your pride, your very future, too. No more
Shall eyes of little boys and girls be blue.
This Trojan Horse in which they steal from you
Is now inside your Gates. Who put it there?
The government controlled by Jews is not
Your friend. It is your enemy. It gave
Away the keys to your own lands. It gave
Away your future and your kin. It gave
To strangers with strange ways what you
Had earned here. Land and Christianity.
Riding a Trojan Horse
I sat upon a Trojan Horse whose back
Was brown as sin. Inside I heard the voice
Of chaos in a thousand foreign tongues.
They plotted our undoing from within.
Those voices of the poor and unkempt men
Who came here at the Jewish call, the laws
That Cellar, Lautenberg, and Javitts wrote
Which washed away the whites from their own lands
And cast the pall and stench of madness deep
Inside their streets, the sordid touch of hands
With alien skin and nails, brown hands upon
The white hands of their children, hands that lay
Incestuously dark upon their progeny.
Their future has been stolen by the hand
Of Jacob tugging Esau back into
The womb of dark despair. The browns supplant
Them here, as Jews have planned for all the lands
They occupy. For they are Babylon.
Arkansas Prayer, circa 1932
Just nineteen miles from Little Rock the wheel
And axle broke. Oh, Lord, please help me find
A way to fix this thing. Bring down your hands
Upon my wheel and make it smooth and pure,
And, while youíre here with me please clean my heart
Of impure things Iíve picked up in this world
Where evils plague us all. Oh, Lord, you know
Thereís men out here who would not hesitate
To kill me and my horses, too. Bring down
Your hands. Caress my wheel and me. Make me
As close to you as I shall be. My life
On Earth is rough but I appreciate
These worldly things I have. Oh, Lord, come down
And heal this wheel. Oh, Lord, come guide my reins.
Radio Days, circa 1923
I am the radio waves that penetrate
The skies. I am the fate of kings. I speak
With loudest tongue. Within the air I rise
On eaglesí wings into the Sunís bright eye
Of gold. The people listen to my voice
Inside their radios. Of many things
I speak, of nations, products, cars, and you,
Oh, Lord, yes, even you. I carry you
To many homes in preachersí voices shrill.
Inside grand, complex organ sounds, your soul
Swims there into their souls. It fills them up.
I help them find your Grace. Marconi made
Me from a mind that you, Oh, Lord, embraced.
My broadcasts amplify your Being, Lord.
God and "The Price Is Right" Television Show, circa 1971
Bob Barker stands upon the TV stage
Dressed out in suits so fine. This show
He hosts is based on coveting the things
My neighbor has. Those wayward darts that hit
Balloons with prizes tucked inside them do not
Reveal Godís Grace. Salvation is not there.
Behind that Trinity of curtainsóOne, Two, Threeó
I see the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost
Ensnared in furniture and cars. Your name
Is shouted by contestants seeking wealth
Unearned. They do not know you are that wealth.
They see you in a car. Their souls are caught
In Satanís eyes that twinkle on these screens
Emitting screams of glory. "Look, what I have won!"
The Evening NEWS, circa 2003
Oh, Lord, I do not see You in the NEWS
At dinner time. Instead, I see Satanic thugs.
I see the wars, the bombings, and those men
Who died in bloody clothes on some lost field
Of battle far away from green America.
The streets of cities flash upon the screen
In color, showing vast catastrophes,
Tornadoes, hurricanes, and riots where
My Promised Land, America, seems far
Away and unbefitting of your Grace.
The TV worlds of NEWS are not the same
As dull reality. They magnify
The bad and minimize the good. Lord, save
Me from this hoodlum NEWS reportersí spin.
My Lifeís Wasted Work Time, circa 1999
My pickup truck transports me to my job
Where I compute all day before a screen
Of wizened numbers. All my days transform
From prices, sales and distribution as
Though that is Godís particular reason for
My lifeís existence. Is there nothing more,
Dear Christ, than margins and the rise and fall
Of markets filled with stats, analysis
And charts? When life is over, will I wish
For something more than this? Will profit stand
To profit me, or shall it be the end
That prophecies my lifeís desmise. Who are
We here below the lights, behind a desk
Where keyboards slowly click away our lives?
The Internet, circa 2003
The Internet transforms my local world
From one of silence to a place of deep
Entwining exploration of the mass
Of minds out there whose server pages print
My screen in new ideas, quirky NEWS
And long-craved loves from horny women who
Pursue my masculine frame. Oh, Lord, I pray
For patience in this world of fast-paced girls
Who prey on boys like vultures sent through skies,
Their lonely hearts on six-foot wings affixed
To their ungodly lies about how good
They are, so full of life, and each a girl
So perfect, when, in fact, God knows, that they
Are just spent seeds from Satanís dripping hulk.