Tucker Carlson’s Stupid Moon Face

Yannick Marshall

I used to be a poet. I loved the moon. So I feel uniquely persecuted by this thing that steam-pressed it’s surface with his pudgy, klan-colored, puke-face. And I mean puke-face. No serious reading can be afforded a man who used a bowtie as a Trojan horse to shovel in would-be genocidaire’s musings into the public sphere. The nazism of late capitalism is banal, trite, trinkety. A stalled NASCAR on top of which two diapers sling shit at one another. You can’t criticize Tucker; you can only be stained by him. This isn’t Hegel’s racism via stature or Arendt’s thought-through anti-blackness. Today’s racist ideologues are just repositories of meh. 

I had never thought of George Méliès as a premonition, of Tennyson’s “the moon may draw the sea” as warning. I certainly never read into Badu’s “Orange Moon” anything other than the rebellions of Ausar Auset romance. These moons were mine. I dislike Carlson less for the garble he secrets than for his Fox News thumbnails on youtube. The white, plate-like dullness of the moon-impostor that has made bland at least a hundred of my poems.

And that’s the terrible insidiousness of this fatuous skinheadery. It doesn’t worry you with ideas that you have to write Notebooks and rejected dissertations against.  Instead, American conservatism countenances anti-poetry. (Although, I guess so did Kipling). It facilitates the chalky dullards that virally accost every digital alley along the main road to kitten videos. The olden-days killers had pith helmets, malaria meshes, drank whisky and spoke like Lawrence of Arabia. Wtf is a Tucker? A lazy, late-capitalist, uninventive, bow-tie that rails against browns with neither the sauciness of a Churchill, nor the pioneering stare of a Herzl. And all this while my Yemoja is thrown over government counters complaining to deaf ears about identity theft. 

He says bad things about women and blacks. So does Jeanine Pirro, probably. But she hasn’t taken the moon from me. In fact she is probably at this moment downing an overdramatic glass of Pabst’s Blue Ribbon wishing she could publicly spit against the white, male privilege polluting her skinhead newsroom. (I see you, Jeanine!).

It has been a long war against the colonizers. We have our poor geniuses in every cranny of these states, socializing, creating, and playing if not inventing new instruments.  Musicians and filmmakers are acid-stripping the paint off the old settler theater.  If nothing else, put a Jumanji suit on a ruddy, silver-tongued aryan model, arms akimbo, like the last stand of the civilized world. Step on a rock and telescope-spy out to the rising exploited world as you go down with your ship. I’d even tip my hat. But not to a Tucker.  

Look the goddamn part.

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