our national, state, and local laws and punish American workersrnand small businessmen to benefit the global technocrats whornfund the Democratic and Republican parties.rnFinally, if men and women of the right are willing to walkrnsome distance down the road with Gianfranco Fini and PatrnChoate (and his spokesman Ross Perot), with Sir James Goldsmithrnand Pat Buchanan, they must also recognize the plainrnfact that national governments, up until very recently, havernbeen the worst agents of oppression, working steadily not onlyrnto subjugate historical regional cultures in all parts of Italy, andrnin the American South and Midwest and West, but also to underminernchurches and the moral and spiritual traditions theyrnrepresent. The nation-state is useful as a shield—if only temporarilyrn—against the international monsters and transnationalrnviruses that threaten to destroy even the nations who createdrnthem in their laboratories. A reactionary’s sympathies will alwaysrnlie with the little communities who continue to defy thernJacobin state and with the movements like the Lega Nord andrnthe Southern League that work for liberation.rnThese simple principles are not perfect or exhaustive. Theyrnare certainly not original. They are, in fact, implicit in much ofrnwhat has been written and spoken by our friends over the pastrndecade. Thev are the basis, I believe, of our common resistancernto the Jacobin nightmare that has been tormenting the sleep ofrnWestern man since the French lawyers murdered Louis andrnMarie Antoinette, since Lincoln unleashed his jackals on therngallant South, since Roosevelt fought fascism abroad to imposernit at home. The phrase belongs to Lawrence Dennis, somethingrnof a fascist himself, and they tried him for treason forrnmerely uttering it. Someday, if we are really lucky, we shallrnprove ourselves so dangerous to this regime that they will declarernus all to be criminals and outlaws.rn”We must all hang together,” said Ben Franklin to John Hancock,rnas thev were signing the Declaration that could havernproved to be their death warrant, “or most assuredly we shall allrnhang separately.” It is time for people on the right to join together,rnto hang tough, even if it means at the end of a rope.rnLos Perdidos De La Mesa Verdernby Alan SullivanrnAbove the bluffs a golden eagle swerves,rnThermaling up Point Lookout’s sandstone pale.rnThe access road ascends in whipsnake curvesrnCut through the crumbly Mancos Valley shale.rnWith gates and tolls the commonwealth preservesrnThis wilderness where wolves no longer wailrnNor shamans savor jimson in the shadernCast by a waterpocket’s palisade.rnAtop the mesa drivers park their carsrnWhere Anasazi farmers ditched the loess.rnThough juniper and pinyon hide the scarsrnImpartially as weeds would repossessrnOur own abandoned fields. What earthen jarsrnWill hold our dust? Whom will our works impress?rnHow reverently will antiquaries tracernThe discards of our fabricating race?rnWe troop with tourists down the yucca trackrnTo Spruce House where the black-eyed windows watchrnAs though the pueblo dwellers might come back,rnSuing the state for title to this notchrnWith snowmelt welling from its mossy crack.rnAn urchin clambers up a pinyon’s crotch.rnBarking his shins on weather-beaten limbsrnWhich grew when braided sentries walked the rims.rnTwo centuries before Columbus sailed.rnThe Lost Ones quit these alcoves in the cliffs,rnLeaving—^before their kiva culture failed—rnThese charcoal prints and cryptic petroglyphsrnAlong the walls their plaited ladders scaled.rnWhether they fled from locusts, hippogriffsrnOr apparitions of a Passion Play,rnNo honest archeologist can say;rnBut love, these ruins make an atheistrnReflect upon the depth of Christian sinrnAnd recognize behind the Eucharist,rnThe “gentle Anasazi” eating kin.rnNo scruples trouble their apologistrnWho merely points out cistern, kiln and bin,rnNever admitting what obsidian ritesrnOnce stained this ledge on sacrificial nights.rnPensive, we mount the Temple of the SunrnWhere horned lizards bask in the warmth of noon.rnNo camera shutters click; no children run;rnBut a bold tovvhee trills its fluent tunernAcross the canyon’s blue oblivion.rnIn solitude and silence we communernWith presences elusive as the bird.rnHaunting the song, shunning the spoken word.rnFor here the Lost Ones’ mystery abides—rnA desperate gesture just before their Fall.rnUnfinished, this immense foundation hidesrnConceptions wider than its broken wall.rnMapping the firmament of spirit guidesrnwhich we call stars, the shamans sought to stallrnThe ruin they foresaw—or somehow wrestrnSalvation from the nemesis thev blessed.rnHow shall we justify embraces now?rnWithout issue, whose future shall we serve—rnWhose hand will guide the grindstone or the plow?rnAround us, mute, the mortared courses curvernOver the mesa’s furthest jutting brow.rnBeyond, a Void none but the dead observe—rnThat Absolute where only Mind belongs—rnRings with the notes of unremembered songs.rnAPRIL 1997/13rnrnrn