Dennis the Peasant

Evidently A Progressive's Thanksgiving Substitutes Bad Poetry For Turkey...

Lots of my little conservative pals are terrified at the thought of Barack Obama being President.

 

What I find far more terrifying is the thought of large numbers of Progressives being happy enough about Barack Obama being President to write poetry on the subject.

 

Here's some of what I've found...

 

I Struck A Blow For Freedom Today

 

I struck a blow for freedom this morning
And the oppressors should heed this warning
They were smug and thought I’m insignificant
And ignored the wisdom of the tiny ant
Who by the millions fell the mighty elephant.

 

Actually, you struck a blow against poetry today. I was wondering how long it would take someone to dredge up the ol' ant simile...

 

So We All Could Fly

 

Rosa sat so Martin could March

Martin marched so Barack could run

Barack ran so we all could fly

 

And you wrote poetry so we could all cringe.

 

Boiled Potatoes

 

Two pounds of potatoes
any kind
Rinse them well
Cover with water

Maybe toss in some garlic cloves
maybe not
a handful of salt in the water.
When fork tender,
rinse in cold water to stop cooking
but this is where the real cooking begins.

Drizzle on some Olive Oil, the good stuff,
then toss in some Dill, parseley, chives,
Salt & pepper
Stir it up.

You can toss in some cheese,
sour cream,
whatever...

I also make a killer steak,
but it's naked without
boiled potatoes.

I can happily eat
boiled potatoes with no steak

But Steak without potatoes...
Not much.

Boiled potatoes
stand alone.
The perfect food.

Somehow I find
a political truth in this.

Boiled potatoes
can be spicy, savory or plain,
but anyway you dress them
I likes.

I feel this is a Howardly food,
and as such, nourishing and
delicious. But frankly,
if there never was a Howard Dean
at this point, we would all
have to learn to love
boiled potatoes, rice and beans,
bread and water
anyways.

 

Howardly food? I be the last person on Earth to disagree with the idea that Howard Dean is very white, somewhat lumpy and rather bland, but even I wouldn't dream of attempting to complement him by comparing him with a tuber...

 

This is the Day

 

This is for Emmitt Till, whose face shown like an angel in an open casket in Chicago... whose spirit touches us still

This is for Medgar Evers, whose fire and strength could not be silenced
by a rifle round

This is for those who spoke truth to power and were bitten by dogs, spat
at by hoses, kept impoverished, poor, and hungry

This is for Jackie Robinson who died young to bring America joy and for Hank who never got his due.

This is for the black workers at Smithfield Foods who work like slaves and need to unionize and change the course of their lives.

This is for every kid that needed a role model that didn't rap or sell drugs.

This is for the Buffalo Soldiers, Patton's Army, the Big Red One, my former unit, the Fort Huachuca Honor Guard.

This is for Barack Obama's grandmother... who will not see her special grandson elected President of the United States.

This is the moment in our lives where we might all become color blind. And hopefully, this will be the end of white privilege.

This is a time when all Americans, from all backgrounds can look at a ballot and realize that they are electing one of amongst them and not one of the special few.

This is day one of a browner nation where we look out amongst our peers and in every one of us see a little bit of ourselves

This is for you, Martin...

This is the moment.

When great great grandsons of slavemasters and slaves come together and realize the common shared history of a land of freedom that was built with black and white hands

When a generation of young people motivate a generation of their elders to push that lever and stand up against the echoed voices of a time when a black man could not drink at a white man's fountain.

When the emptiness that defined a generation of culture wars is left to the winds.

When those that have held the bag for so long, yet have not given up on our democracy wait in lines, sacrifice a days' living wages, and say to the world, "we have your back, brother".

When America says to the world, we will end these wars. We will settle our conflicts by engaging those who do not agree with us.

When the republican dogma of being pro-life is transformed into the American ideal of being pro-health for every citizen of this great land.

When the great state of South Carolina realizes its stars and bars flag is out of place in a 21st century America.

When the good people of Appalachia are governed by good people who care about them and salute the President of the United States- even though he is a black man.

 

I don't know about you, but I feel like giving the world a great big hug...

 

Today, November 7, 2008

 

Now that the dark cloud,
of the Bushy crowd
will be leaving,
dare we dream?

I am full of HOPE that
this New Year's Eve
we will not longer
be grieving, or reeling
from some evil scheme!

 

What? Did Barack dump Dick Cheney and the ring into a pit of doom or something?

 

URBAN SPRAWL - MOTHER NATURE’S RAPE

 

While urban sprawl
mauls Mother Nature's wonder.

The greedy capitalists' sins,
profit and gain,
reign while Chaos grins.

Slowly sowing the seeds of destruction
with a manic push for production;
lulled into carnal security,
too blind to see.

In the end, many will have profited
their temporary gain,
then watch helplessly
their desperate childrens' pain.

Wondering when they could have saved
their tiny ones
from dying of thirst
or a belly full of hunger.

A man will trade his mansion on high
for food and water so his child won't die.

Nothing will escape the planet-wide mistake
of Mother Nature's rape!

Can we avoid this dire outcome?

Yes.  

With President Obama's leadership we can crawl out of this Capitalism-Gone-Wrong mess.

 

Yep, we're gonna crawl right out of that Capitalism-Gone-Wrong mess... That's why Obama brought Paul Volcker on board! 

 

And while I'm not normally the type to get carried away, I must admit the poetry above has moved me to attempt a bit of Barack-inspired doggerel myself...

 

A New Spoon 

 

I was chewing on a rubber balloon

In the middle of May last June

When Barack's halo made me swoon

Electing him would be a really big boon

Allowing all the poor to buy a prune

And maybe even a fork and spoon

 

 

Paul Volcker? Now that's change I can believe in!

 

Nothing Takes The Edge Off A Financial Crisis Like Some Good, Old-Fashioned Bad Progressive Poetry!

Leonard Pinth-Garnell here...

Oh sure, Wall Street is trying to rape The Taxpayer, Capitalists are looking for Socialist-style relief, Republicans want a bailout, and Democrats want an equity stake. On the other hand, you, my friends, are stuck with the thankless task of listening to people like Amanda Marcotte and Oliver Willis explain it all...

What could be more appropriate than some really, really, really bad progressive poetry?

Not much!

Here's a bit of artistic flotsam that had us worried Our Amanda had found herself an iambic pentameter muse...

Which leads us to ask, just what name would one give this muse?

The Pandagon Atheistic Anti-Patriarchal Pro-Choice Not Steeped In White Privilege Even Though We're As White As They Get White Feminist Progressive Poetic Muse of Death?

Or what?

The Tupperware Party
In non-Euclidean Geometry, when does the term wrong side of the tracks have any meaning?

It's a hole in the bottom of the sea.
A mud puddle on the verge of an ocean
drive here at your own
risk. Park in the rain
shuffle through the dark

Of course there's dogs and kids and brothers-in-law
my nose twitches on the edge
of a sneeze or a wheeze
or nonbreathing . . .
the hounds have not been invited
but they have left
a couchful of hair
a roomful of eau de damp dog

"All day I teach nursery school, but
I make a hundred dollars a party at night.
You can too." the hostess says

More women than chairs are here
in this room big enough for two or three
that now holds twelve: "All the better to sell
you shit my dear," doesn't say
the wide-hipped shouting woman who is now
demonstrating a recipe
with canned tuna, pie crust mix
and cool whip in a burpless
bowl she will microwave
and then share with enthusiasm

And I buy
what I bought 25
years ago. A ball for a baby
this time a granddaughter -- an overpriced ball
to slip shapes in to teach the old geometry

Something I could have bought
at the dollar store
now on every corner

I buy a play ball to remind me
our girls need more
than square rounds
and day before pay day spoons

To remind me that if space
is curved enough
maybe we need never come again
to this tupperware party
at the end of the universe and
working class life

Where women buy milky semi-opaque
pink and lemon and lime
pliable storage for ourselves
and our cackling
anguished sociability
and sell each other

Oh beloved
the economy
of women

Shakespeare

Now you can't have bad progressive poetry these days without the obligatory Sarah Palin and Those Fearful Redneck Republicans progressive poem of death, now can you?

Palin Country

Please call us rednecks, "cause we're proud
To be so rude and rough and loud,
And act in ways elitists think
Proves that we've had too much to drink
In some dead-end Alaskan dive
When, dude, it just shows we're alive.
We love our church, our kids, our beer,
Can tell you right down to the year
That God put Man upon the Earth,
Know life starts well ahead of birth,
Don't give a damn about the arts,
And stay away from foreign parts
Until the moment that we're sent
as John McCain's vice-president.

The great thing, when your neck is red?
Nobody cares what's in your head -
The voters seem to like 'em dumb,
So why not pick a hockey mom
Who hunts and prays and procreates
To govern these United States?
If you can drive a snowmobile,
The people, bless them, think you're real,
And in the end, who needs a brain?
Just tell your kids they must abstain,
Pretend that when your rule's ignored
It's some great gift sent by the Lord,
And prove you'll go to any length
To make each redneck fault a strength.

Shelley

Or an obligatory Fawning Shower of Fulsome Flatulence Progressive Poem of Death, for that matter?

Anaphora politica: Obama to the people

You deserve to be respected, admired, encouraged and challenged
not worked up to hatred and fear.

You deserve to be known for the real things in your lives
not the angers the shills try to work up.

You deserve honor for your spirit, your loves and your concerns
not to have them exploited for gain.

You deserve change not lies
You deserve deserve solutions not attacks

You deserve truth,
You deserve facts
You deserve understanding.

You deserve a government that acts within limits so your rights
will be honored and your individuality

You deserve a government that hears and believes that your lives deserve to be saved, and your health and your sanity:
  diplomatic solutions to conflicts,
  a decent health care system that serves all, and
  services for those who have put their bodies and souls in danger for their country and
  services for those where history and government policies have put them in danger of their lives and their children's lives.

One who thinks, knows us, gets our lives, our fears, our delights,
our families and our safety:  

One who knows that freedom is only preserved if government acts under the rule of law and under the constitution. that these are the mechanisms of liberty, not machine guns and tanks;

One who knows you won't be fooled by shrillness and pandering
These you deserve.
All this and more

Thus Obama!

Whitman

Let alone an obligatory Trembling Lower Lip and Misty Eyed 'Can We Dare to Hope?' Progressive Poem of Death... right?

Registering Voters in Philadelphia : A Poem

Old black man
With cane
Slowly
walks by me.

Sir, are you registered to vote, I ask

He looks at me and in his eyes

Broken dreams, promises unfulfilled
Years of scorn, disillusionment, disappointments

Why should I vote he asks
what difference is it gonna make?
Those politicians are all the same. Don’t do anything for me.

Sir, I say again, are you registered to vote? Don’t you want to vote this time?

This time is different.

And I see Emmett Till and James Cheney and Medgar Evers
And the King and
I press on and ask

Sir, would you like to vote in this election?

Would you like to seize this moment?

Do you dare to hope again?

 

Homer

I don't know about you... but I can dare to hope that we won't being seeing this sort of thing for much longer. Unfortunately, it is only a matter of time before we start getting the Collapse of Wall Street and Captialism In General progressive poetry of death. But take solace, faithful readers, in the fact that such poetic bird droppings may prevent yet another saga of the Heroic Obama...

In either case, we'll be here to chronicle it for you.

It's Time For More Bad Progressive Poetry...

Leonard Pinth-Garnell here. It's that time again... Culled from a variety of "Progressive" websites, here's this week's pile of Bad Progressive Poetry.

 

First, we have an appropriately gooey, sticky and altogether icky bit of saccharine sweetnessy sweetness to remind us that Change = Hope... especially when it comes to The Children.

 

The Smallest Obama

She clings to her father’s hand
small fingers intertwined with his
The crowd is large and tall
and surges near;
faces she does not remember
happily call out her name

She looks up
and smiles at her father
he is tall, taller, tallest,  
he waves and grins,
his hand touching outstretched hands
thousands of hands
each reaching to grasp as they shake
the one hand he extends outstretched
one hand,
but not both, not today
this one, in the curve of her fingers,
this one, is hers

 

I have no idea what sort of drug this particular poet has ingested. I don't like it, I don't approve of it, and I want some (the drug, not the poetry).

 

They spoke in hushed tones,

 

lest they violate the solemnity
of the timeless ceremony.
They watched in awe as the dancers
hopped around the striped pole
while slinging
hog entrails at each other.
The ritual toe wrestling contest
held them entranced.
The presentation of the
initiate in the deeply traditional
outfit of
clown shoes,
ballerina dress, and
a goat's head mask
elicited short, excited, breaths
from both of them.
And the pinnacle of the service,
the ritual immersion of the initiate
in a vat of
honey and chicken feathers
(to symbolize his newfound
right to borrow fishing gear
from the neighbors)
was even more moving than their
professor had promised.
There were tears in their eyes
as they chanted "Great googlie mooglie!"
with the others,
and prepared to go to the
post-ceremonial feast,
the smell of the Ritz crackers
and assorted Jello molds
practically making them swoon
in anticipation.

 

My favorite lines by this poet?

"...she didn't have the balls

Or testicular fortitude..."

Accurate and succinct.

 

Hillary Clinton: America's Foe

Hillary is a foe to the USA
Tells us all lies every single day
Likes to change the rules in the middle of the game
Likes to make excuses everyone else knows are lame

She tried to change our US health care laws
But did not go far enough; she didn't have the balls
Or testicular fortitude, whichever you desire
These days, to Big Pharma, Hillary is for hire

The biggest vote she has ever known
Was about Iraq, her vote was blown
She bought the Bush lies, hook, line and sinker
And now the excuse she makes really is a stinker

Hillary could have led the way for those who were opposed
To endless war without reason, but she simply got hosed
To this day she refuses to admit it was a mistake
The Iron Lady persona is really just a fake

She claims she went to Bosnia under heavy fire
Yet another story that proves Hillary is a liar
Now she plans to nuke Iran and maybe her own party
(Neither of those big ideas is really very smart(y))

Hillary is our enemy and only cares for number one
She's really Annie Oakley, she's really good with guns
That is what she would like you and I to believe
Oh, dear Hillary, why can't you simply LEAVE?

Hillary is not a friend to the USA
Check it out: vote for Obama today
When he is elected in the first days of November
Some will think of Hillary and have nothing to remember

 

Finally, it seems obvious somebody's been reading way too much William S. Burroughs.

 

1775

(Onward Christian Soldiers, as sung by Ethel Merman)
The Kings of the Market, the Bishops
of Government, the Generals of God, Inc. --
they'll preach circles around you. Hang on,
pilgrim (said in a John Wayne drawl).
Here we go again: a Texas twister
of words around your hungry head.
God, Country, Constitution, Founding Fathers.
Yakkety-yak, don't talk back. You could starve
to death in third-hand boots by the time
they've listed all the ways to shut up and salute.
Not much these days about that little word,
revolution.

Embarrassing . . . But we had one. We did.
(Mighty Mouse theme.) Threw the bastards out.
Those used to be inspiring stories. Now
you don't hear them so much. Especially
since America, in conjunction with the CIA, DOD,
DEA, FBI, NSA and ASS has overthrown itself
and any other revolution that wanted to kick
the power junkies off their fix and let the people
who work the world run it. I wonder
what ol' Ben Franklin would think of that?
(Insert James Bond theme here.)

Of course, (Drum & fife music.) in Ben's day
things didn't quite mean their opposite. But
we're so much more sophisticated now. Everything
we know is wrong and backwards and
what's funny is that we know and don't care.
That's how post-modern and pre-informed we are.
If you aren't part of the joke, how can you get it?
Laugh it up. Show me them pearly whites.

For instance: (The Third Man theme, Orson Welles
narrating.) Forget Gettysburg and Berlin. The South
won the Civil War and the Germans won WWII.
Jump down, turn around, get yourself a union --
those companies you work for are plantations.
Look closely and you'll see the stars
in the Stars and Stripes are actually teeny, tiny
little swastikas hand-stitched by graveyard shift
piece-work children in foreign sweatshops.
Now that's quality workmanship.

(Bring up the Godfather theme, Brando narrating.)
Mafia? What Mafia? Our leaders are merely
a few humble fisherman who are blessed
with many friends in the import/export business.
As a personal favor and a token of respect,
they would prefer that you not get any ideas
about taking off God, President and Company
from your back like and old saddle. Guido says:
don't be a hero, and if we need to whack you,
like Martin Luther King, don't take it
personally. It's just business.

The good news is that (Twilight Zone theme.)
in top secret captured alien laboratories
bunkered under the Washington Monument,
researchers have finally identified the gene
for revolution and managed to turn it off.

I'm sorry. I made that last part up. What?
Oh, what I meant to say is: I made it all up.
There-is-not-a-rifle-with-a-scope-targeting-
my-head-and-I-am-saying-this-of-my-own-free-
will-and-not-reading-a-prepared-statement.

In the name of all that's holy, do
(Star Spangled Banner, as played by Marilyn Manson.)
as you're told. Rock and roll over
in your fancy straw and go back to sleep.
Keep working, peasants, I mean,
consumers. I mean, citizens. Move along.
Nothing to see here. Laugh with the laugh track
and the world laughs with you. Pray for King
and Company. I mean President and Country.
Damn this language that will not bow or bend!
You don't want to go against God.
(Slowly fade up The Internationale, as sung
by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir)

Do you?

It's Time For Another Dose Of Bad Progressive Poetry...

Leonard Pinth-Garnell here, reminding you that this isn't the All Amanda Channel.

Poem for Sunday America

Horse of a Different Color
Red, white & grey-- a stop sign
dancing like a weed in
Katrina’s huff and puff and
I forget physics,
clinging
to a mattress,
a Maltese,
and the earth's sneeze
dismissing
what was not
so rooted
that it can out-howl
the wind.

McCain Poem

You look at the election
And you say "Who's John McCain?"
He's not the perfect candidate
Now just let me explain:
He says that he knows little
About matters economic
And vows to fight the infidels:
The terrorists Islamic.
His tortured years in Vietnam
Were noble and heroic
But I'd prefer a President
Born since the Mesozoic.
If he's elected there's one thing
Of which we can be sure:
We'll stay in Iraq a thousand years
And then a thousand more.
He says "reform campaign finance";
Runs against the corporate lobby;
But likes to fly on private jets
And meet folks like Chalabi.
And don't you put it past him
He'll do it if he can
We'll be in Iraq a thousand years
Then we'll invade Iran.
He'll jump to ban abortion
And the issue of gay marriage
He'll have affairs and no one cares
But Clinton's he'll disparage.
Justifying the Iraq war
With his time in Vietnam:
With his militaristic mindset
You know just who we'll bomb.
But then, you may ask, what comes next-
What is his long term plan?
Is it Turkey? Egypt? Syria?
Pakistan? Iran?
You needn't be an Einstein
Or the honored Dalai Lama...
To know that this guy just ain't fine
And to support Obama.

free ramble grazing poem

I come by here and I get pissed off and fired up
Ashcroft don't want to hear about Al-Queda
and dick in the Oval is clueless
where will it all end?
with a perp walk i so ardently hope for?
or with another exchange of deals?
boomer soonergrunt is heavily into the bottle
and i dont blame him
if i was facing another tour with no one to back me up
and no bullets
and no rifle
i would probably smoke a big fat joint and hope they would wash me out
i come by DailyKossack collage of humans and i get hope
and i get pissed off at how we have been reamed and cheated
and I refuse to give up
will keep firing off emails and going up to vote
my daughter asked me when i went to the caucus if
we were participating
i said yes and the little boy who i read to
and whose dad read to my daughter too while we tag-teamed in line
yep, we ARE participating, or as best as the youngster could grapple
with the idea that we do have an impact on society
goddamit! this means something and I am not going to give up
I live in a land that has chosen policy over reality
and i refuse to deny the facts
I will not kowtow or bend over
i will be bloodied but unbowed
i will not surrender to Machiavelli or to his Prince
I have all the bullets and if they demand lead
in the form of writs and lawsuits
so be it, i will give it to Karl
and damn his brain and confound the wisdom of the wise
let the widow browbeat the judge
until he relents and gives her justice
avenge me mine adversary
W, your days are numbered
and we will not forget or forgive
if you will not confess
if you will not relent
then we will not cease or desist

Sewing Machine Operator

Her derriere, that great bolt of cloth,
Ripples downward from her chair,
Spills like silk to cotton-puff knees,
Drapes over presser-bar legs.
Her hips are a behemoth sewing machine --
The swelling chest, a compressor
That slurps and whirrs and sucks.
Her fingers are needles piercing cloth.
Her mind's motor, its gears in friction
Grind and roar with her head
Till screams or yawns escape
Her gaping drawer mouth.
Meanwhile, round bobbins dangle
From deafened ears, thread unwinding,
Entangling her presser feet to bolted chair.

I'm Busy... Amuse Yourself With Some Bad Progressive Poetry

Leonard Pinth-Garnell here... Sorry gentle reader, but 'tis the busy season for this particular accountant. You'll have to settle for somebody else's really bad writing for the time being. In this case, the effort comes from the sort of sensitive, artistic Progressives we see pouring out of Starbucks to protest the crimes of Amerikkka...

On the Meaning of Citizenship

As the world around us changes,
From what we knew to something bad,
For good men and women the choice ranges,
We can keep the new or embrace what we had.
We have a Constitution that protects us,
Past abuses of power are the lesson,
We can accept these changes and make no fuss,
And let the Constitution fall like the setting sun.
But what will we lose if we say nothing,
The right to speak our thoughts freely?
To be safe in our homes, it’s just one thing,
And Habeus Corpus just another, truly.
Do we value what the Constitution gave us,
Or is it just an old piece of paper worth nothing?
Do we follow all laws made that are just,
Or toss the law away too, that’s something.
Is political power so important,
That we give up everything like that,
Just anything they want, no matter the extent,
If the Administration wants it, go to bat?
What is our country, if not about questions
To power, injustice and cruelty,
The Constitution declared us free men,
But how free are we when we owe fealty?

A Country in Danger

Lies can be polite, white, or full of hate,
And the people who speak them small or great,
But when did it become OK,
For our government to throw truth away?
The trust of the people is fragile,
And political maneuverings agile,
Do we really need lies from all of these guys,
That leave we the people with nothing but ‘why’s?
How far our country has fallen,
From noble ideals to power mad deals,
I can hear Tom Jefferson callin’,
The warning of tyranny in his appeals.

My Car - a poem

My car smiles at me
as I walk out the door to death
I love my car,
I know it is wrong to love something so material
But, my car is fast, it is sleek
It is fun to share the road with,
It gives me a taste of lost youth
I smoke - but only at the table in my garage
Not in my house, not at my work
When I go from my house to my garage
My car laughs at me
My car is not stupid,
I on the other hand...

Bad Progressive Poetry: The Obama Edition

Leonard Pinth-Garnell here...

It's time for another installment of Bad Progressive Poetry, and given that much of the Progressive World is orgasmic over the thought of Change, Obama and whatever either of those might actually entail, is it any surprise we're starting to see Epic Obama Poetry? Of course not.

Poem For Obama: I Have Waited Long Enough

O Ferlinghetti I am with you tonight
And I am waiting
For a rebirth of the soul
Of America
And a rebirth of the body
Of America
And for the world to be remade
In the transfigured image
Of the Christ child incarnate
And crucified and risen
And Buddha enlightened
And Mohammed baptized
With Pentecostal fire
And I am waiting
For you to send me syncopated Angels
To carry my tune
And I am waiting
For the ghost of Franklin Delano Roosevelt
To haunt the White House lawn
And scare the living shit out of
George W. Bush
Until he pulls his family vendetta out of Iraq
And abdicates the throne
And with Cheney and Petraeus
And Rove and Gonzales
And Libby and Rumsfeld and Delay
And all those power-hungry bastards
Buys a little nail salon
In Wyoming
And repents of his fatuous existence
And I am waiting
For Barack Obama
The most hopeful black man
In the United States of America
To be elected to the White House
By all the good white evangelical folks
Of Mississippi and Alabama
And Orange County, California
And Dover, Pennsylvania
And Jena, Louisiana
And Iowa and New Hampshire
And Nevada and South Carolina
In a new campaign
Called for by the popular imagination
And ratified by all the ballots counted
In every blessed precinct
Of South Florida
And I am waiting
For Bill and Hillary Clinton
To ride the Middle Class Express
Back to Arkansas
And I am waiting for a great woman
Like Barbara Boxer
Or Kathleen Sebelius
To share the national ticket
And I am waiting
For Al Gore to be appointed
Secretary of State
And Wendell Berry to be named
Secretary of Energy
And Jim Wallis to be consecrated
Secretary of Housing and Urban Development
And for Chris Carter to head the C.I.A.
And I am waiting for the Department of Defense
To be peopled by Quakers
And for the Department of Homeland Security
To be run by Gary Coleman
And a lady cop from New Jersey
And I am waiting for all the billions
And billions and billions
Of dollars spent on killing Muslims
And killing Christians
And killing Jews
And building more nuclear bombs
For the killing of every living thing
On God's green earth
And for padding the wallets
Of oil barons
To be spent on feeding the poor
And feeding the hearts and minds
Of every morally malnourished citizen
Of God forsaken America
And Europe
And the Middle East
And I am waiting
For God to really bless us
Because we can't bless ourselves
And I am waiting
For Christ Jesus to really be preached on TV
And I am waiting for the poor
To really be given adequate medical care
And I am waiting for the meek
To really inherit a carbon-neutral Texas
And I am waiting for the peacemakers
To really run the military
And I am waiting for those
Who hunger and thirst for righteousness
To really vote with their conscience
And not their credit cards
And I am waiting for the merciful
To really de-militarize the National Rifle Association
And I am waiting for the pure in heart
To really see God in the land of the living
And I am waiting
For faith and reason and hope
And justice and righteousness and peace
To be crowned with love
And I am waiting for my government to give a damn
About the welfare of its citizens
And the welfare
Of every neglected child
And every battered woman
And every mentally sick person
Kicked in the groin for bad manners
And psychedelic visions
And dumped in the alley with the garbage
Because there is no room for them at the institution
And I am waiting for food and water
For Christ's sake
To be placed on the table
Of every American family
And in the empty mouths
Of every Hurricane ravaged poor black child
In New Orleans
Because every morsel given to a hungry person
Is Christ's body
And every drop of liquid poured over thirsty lips
Is Christ's blood
And I am waiting for real friendship to break out
Between corporate-sponsored enemies
From every petty ideological camp
Saluted with hands waving for intellectual freedom
And I am waiting for images of real love
To appear on the covers of fashion magazines
And I am waiting for Chloe Sevigny
To be ridiculed by the righteous
And not admired by the depraved
For giving a blow-job to ex-boyfriend Vincent Gallo
In full view of a film audience of millions
And I am waiting for Pauly Shore
To join the circus
And I am waiting for Kid Rock
To grow up
And I am waiting for Larry Flynt
To renounce the lust of the eyes
And the pride of life
And become a Seventh-Day Adventist
And I am waiting
For every sweet young straight woman
To have a fine young strapping handsome
Radical feminist hubby
Make sacred love to her forever
On the banks of the Potomac
And in the elevators of Salt Lake City
And in the back rooms of Christian Family Bookstores
And in hydrogen-powered waterbeds blessed by
Liberal UCC pastors
Who quote freely from the Song of Songs
As if its Henry Miller
In every suburban home in Pittsburgh
And I am waiting
For the physicists to announce
The Grand Unified Theory of Everything
And then tell us why
They don't have a clue what it is
Because the universe is a terrible mystery
Banged into being
By infinite compassion
And I am waiting
For all the students of psychoanalysis
To sublimate their erotic quarrels
With Daddy and Mommy
Into love for Jesus and Buddha
And Mohammed
And reruns of Ozzie and Harriet
And I am waiting
For the Empire State Building
To be turned into a monastery
For spiritual seekers
From all over the globe
And for it to be funded
By U.S. tax dollars and Columbian drug money
And Cat Stevens charities
And I am waiting
For all the Scientologists
To become Mormons
And all the Mormons
To become Presbyterians
And all the Presbyerians
To read their Joseph Smith
And burn Calvin's Institutes in effigy
At the Burning Man festival
In Nevada
And I am waiting
For the Nielsen ratings
To go way way down
And for the numbers of family households
Watching Desperate Housewives
And reality television
And reality smut
And reality aggression
And reality oppression
And reality misogyny
And reality misanthropy
And reality stupidity
And Sunday morning dittoheads
And sitcom hyenas
And soap opera starlets
To vanish overnight
Because there is a new program on FOX
For crazy religious poets
And everyone wants to see
Who is going to be
The next Dante
And I am waiting for the 700 Club
To go off the air because
Pat Robertson
Is being publicly flogged
By Hugo Chavez
And I am waiting
For every lesbian in Decatur, Georgia
To have her own talk show
On CBN
And I am waiting
For every silenced environmental scientist
To have a program on must-see TV
And I am waiting
For Richard SImmons and Mahmoud Ahmadinejad
To tongue-kiss
In the Hall of Justice
And I am waiting for Maureen Dowd
To be the wedding planner
And David Brooks
To be the photographer
And I am waiting
For Paris Hilton to enter a nunnery
And sell her family's fortune
On Ebay
And I am waiting
For every status-obsessed Ivy League graduate
To join the Peace Corps
And every Mammon-worshipping corporate hack
And every uptight professional person
And every depressed social worker
And every constipated academic
To have the most successful bowel movements
Ever to fertilize American soil
And I am waiting
For the working classes
And working mothers
And working fathers
To rise up and declare their right to be human
And I am waiting for the silent poor
Of the so-called Third World
To overthrow American companies
Who exploit them to feed the bloated bellies
Of American consumers
And I am waiting for Christian America
To welcome its resident aliens
And I am waiting
For the National Organization of Women
And Promise Keepers
To have a million person cook-out
At the Washington Monument
And I am waiting
For all the Catholics and the Protestants
And the Muslims
And the Jews
To have a shindig
In Jerusalem
And atone for all the violence
They have done to one another
For hundreds and hundreds of years
Before the God of Abraham and Isaac and Jacob
And I am waiting
For the desperate searching eyes
Of every wandering pilgrim soul
To have a vision of the glory of the Lord
And of Christ and His band of Angels
Coming in the clouds
With Moses and Elijah
And Buddha
And Mohammed
And saints from every culture
And every gender
And every race
And every nation
And every religion
In all of the world's history
And I am waiting for all the atheists
And all the skeptics
And all the cynics
To sense the incomprehensible presence
Of the unseen Deity who walks among us
In a world returning to Eden
And I am waiting for the sky to crack open
And let in some light from above
Because it sure does get dark down here sometimes
When we try to turn our planet into Hell
In the name of the God of Heaven
And I am waiting for Christ to be glorified on every mountain
And Christ to sweep through every valley
Shadowed by our mass conformist denial of death
And life
And love
In America
And I am waiting
And I am waiting
And I am waiting
And I have waited long enough.

My, that was really, really bad...

This is poetry that speaks to us in the plainest of terms; saying that while this poet may have waited long enough, but the rest of us could have waited a whole lot longer...

Here's Some Progressive Poetry. Now Go Away, I'm Busy...

Leonard Pinth-Garnell here...

Busy Season has commenced. As one who is afflicted with loyalties to the Cleveland Browns, I would love to spend much time gloating over the failure of the evil Bill Belichick to gain immortality. As one who is afflicted with loyalties to the Republican Party, I would love to spend much time abusing the partisan pinheads who think a bitchy 40-something Tri-Delt claiming to be ready to "vote Hillary" constitutes a newsworthy action. But alas, I am chained to the obligations of my profession, and therefore all I can offer you at the moment is yet another installment of...

Bad Progressive Poetry

This one's a hummer on an epic scale, and it lives up the canon native to so many Progressives: Never use 5 words when 50 will do...

Let us vote then, you and I - a poem

LET us vote then, you and I,
When the evening news is spreading lies
to the patients etherized upon a fable;
Let us go, through a certain half-deserted mind,
The muttering unkind
A mindless knight in one-night crack-ho tails
And cornpone restaurants with taco-shells:
Sheep that follow like a tedious dittohead
Of insidious portent
To feed you all a dose of healthy koolaid...
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and drink this sh*t...
In the gloom, warmen come aglow
Talking of Guantanamo
The yellow blog that wipes its back upon our window pains,
The yellow news that rubs our nose in blue dress stains,
Licked its lips upon the money of the evening news,
Lingered upon the fools that stand to gain,
Let fall upon his face the pretzel that falls from skies,
Slipped by the congress, made of sullen lies,
And seeing that it was a soft September morn,
Turned around the plane, and fell to Sleep...
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow dust that billows down the street,
Wiping its ass upon the window-panes;
There will be Time, there will be War-
ner,
To prepare a place to meet the presses that you meet;
There will be time for Russ and Rush to bloviate,
And time for all the worthless ways of glands
That lift and drop a dollop on your fate;
Time for Dick and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred distortions and revisions,
Before making toast of Cheney.
From the boom we men come aglow
Walking from Los Alamo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I care?"
Time to turn my back and nude-descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my chair--
[They will say: "How his chair is growing thin!"]
My morning coke, my dollar mounting firmly to boy Ken,
My bolo is immodest, but inserted by a marking pen--
[They will say: "But how his arms of war are sin!"]
Do I dare
Destroy the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minuteman will reverse.
For I have blown them all already, blown them up:--
Have known the evening, mourning, darkest noons,
I have mangled up my life with cocaine spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying thup!
Beneath the building from a farther plume.
So what should I consume?
And I have known the ayes already, known them all--
The ayes that fix you in a formulaic phase,
And when I am formulaic, scrawling with a pen,
When I am penned and scribbling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit on all the buttholes of my days and ways?
And who should I consume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all--
Arms that are daisy-cut and grossly unfair,
[Caught in the gunlight, downed without a care!]
Is it blue stains on a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie are sold at table, with talk of shock and awe.
And should I then consume?
And when should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gunned at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the ruins
Of lonely kids in tatters, pouring out of windows...
I am just a pair of ragged shoes
Scuttling across the floors of silent news.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, creeps so peacelessly!
Scorched by hot zingers,
Asleep ... wired ... or country singers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you Cheney.
Should I, after koolade, coke and icees,
Have the strength to force the world to its crises?
But though I'm inept and blasted, inept and crazed,
Though I have seen many heads [grown slightly shorn] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet--and I'm no mad hatter;
I have seen the speeches of that city slicker,
And I have seen the eternal Bushman hold my coat, and Snicker,
And in shorts, I was DeLayed.
And would it have been worth it, after Oil,
After the kegs, the candy bar, the T,
Hugging the porcelain, a lonesome walk with you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have snapped at the batter with a towel,
To have squeezed the universe into a booger
To roll it toward some overstating question,
To say: "I am Nazareth, book of the dead,
Come back to sell you all, I shall smell you all"--
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: "That is not how I vote at all.
That is not it, at all."
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the fun set and the shipyards and the wrinkled sheets,
After the novel, after the hiccups, after the nose that trails along the floors--
And Kos, and Media Whores--
It is impossible to know just why I'm mean!
But as if a manic slattern slew the pervs on ladders in a screed:
Would it have been with child
If one, settling a pillow or throwing up on call,
And turning toward the window, should spew:
"That is not it at all,
That is not how I vote, at all."
. . . . .
No! I am no Abrahamlet, nor was meant to be;
Petrol attendant, bored, one that will screw
To stifle progress, start a war or two,
Advise the Dick; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to disabuse,
Lunatic, caustic, and super-silly ooze;
Full of false sentence, can't define "obtuse";
The Times, indeed, almost ridiculoose --
I am, for you, the Fool.
I grow old ... I grow old ...
I prefer my money rolled.
Shall I kiss your left behind? Do I dare to be impeached?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and strut upon the stage.
I have heard Travolta singing, to my age.
I do not think that he will sing of me.
I have seen them hiding leeward in the caves
Bombing the dark hair of the slaves blown back
With my thoughts forever white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the star
By star-whores wreathed with seafoam green and crown
Till human votes awake them, and we drown.

Hmm... That was really, really bad.

And there should be a special place in Hell for anyone who would write...

I shall wear white flannel trousers, and strut upon the stage.
I have heard Travolta singing, to my age.

"Ewww... Poetry!"

It's Time For Another Edition Of Bad Progressive Poetry...

Leonard Pinth-Garnell here, with another - and very special - edition of Bad Progressive Poetry.

Why special? Because this week we have are going to share with you an example of a very rare and narrow subset of Bad Progressive Poetry... Bad Progressive Political Endorsements.

This one comes from Pulitzer Prize winning novelist Toni Morrison:

Dear Senator Obama,

This letter represents a first for me--a public endorsement of a Presidential candidate. I feel driven to let you know why I am writing it. One reason is it may help gather other supporters; another is that this is one of those singular moments that nations ignore at their peril. I will not rehearse the multiple crises facing us, but of one thing I am certain: this opportunity for a national evolution (even revolution) will not come again soon, and I am convinced you are the person to capture it.

May I describe to you my thoughts?

I have admired Senator Clinton for years. Her knowledge always seemed to me exhaustive; her negotiation of politics expert. However I am more compelled by the quality of mind (as far as I can measure it) of a candidate. I cared little for her gender as a source of my admiration, and the little I did care was based on the fact that no liberal woman has ever ruled in America. Only conservative or "new-centrist" ones are allowed into that realm. Nor do I care very much for your race[s]. I would not support you if that was all you had to offer or because it might make me "proud."

In thinking carefully about the strengths of the candidates, I stunned myself when I came to the following conclusion: that in addition to keen intelligence, integrity and a rare authenticity, you exhibit something that has nothing to do with age, experience, race or gender and something I don't see in other candidates. That something is a creative imagination which coupled with brilliance equals wisdom. It is too bad if we associate it only with gray hair and old age. Or if we call searing vision naivete. Or if we believe cunning is insight. Or if we settle for finessing cures tailored for each ravaged tree in the forest while ignoring the poisonous landscape that feeds and surrounds it. Wisdom is a gift; you can't train for it, inherit it, learn it in a class, or earn it in the workplace--that access can foster the acquisition of knowledge, but not wisdom.

When, I wondered, was the last time this country was guided by such a leader? Someone whose moral center was un-embargoed? Someone with courage instead of mere ambition? Someone who truly thinks of his country's citizens as "we," not "they"? Someone who understands what it will take to help America realize the virtues it fancies about itself, what it desperately needs to become in the world?

Our future is ripe, outrageously rich in its possibilities. Yet unleashing the glory of that future will require a difficult labor, and some may be so frightened of its birth they will refuse to abandon their nostalgia for the womb.

There have been a few prescient leaders in our past, but you are the man for this time.

Good luck to you and to us.

Toni Morrison

Our "future is ripe"? Maybe, maybe not. But nothing is quite as ripe as this pretentious pile of purple prose Toni has left hanging on the vine. Had she mentioned warming sun and nourishing soil -rather than the odd "ravaged tree" amongst the "poisonous landscape" - we might have been able to cull enough copy for a decent wine commercial... As it stands, though, this endorsement must rank as the worst literary endorsement we're likely to see this year.

After all, Norman Mailer is dead.

So is Walt Whitman, come to think of it.

But enough of that. Let's see what the dregs of creative political expression have to offer...

Progress

Progress, not perfection.
Perfection is a product of this world’s fantasy
Progress is a stable core of life’s reality.
In various phases of life you work to get it right.
Expecting results that will make life easy and bright.
But, you must beware for perfection isn’t there.
Step-by-step, you must progress if you dare
Wanting perfection is Ok to run through your mind,
But your goals will be reached through progress in time.
Not reaching perfection may cause you to stop
While progressing step-by-step, you may take a hop
Progress over perfection you must continue to try
Life will be better until the day you die
Progress, not perfection

Our Environment

White snow in a drift melted into the brook,
That gurgled past pines in the path that it took,
The scent of the pines was a joy to the deer,
That played in the grasses that grew there that year,
Bright wildflowers nodded their heads in the breeze,
And butterflies fluttered among them with ease,
The lake was so blue it brought shame to the sky,
Ducks paddled the ripples as they glided by,
A squirrel found food that he hid with his wiles,
The air was so clear the view spanned for miles,
I watched as the sun lit the mountains with gold,
And thought I’ll love this beauty ‘til I have grown old,
The sorrow I feel at the damage we’ve done,
Makes me swear to protect it until the fight’s won.

THE NIGHT BEFORE THE CONVENTION

'Twas the night before the Convention, when all through the land
a revolution was stirring, the people were making a stand;
The spy cameras were hung by the police with care,
In the hopes of snaring a protestor and claiming it’s fair;
The homeless were nestled all snug in new beds,
to hide them away from democrat heads;
When out on the street there arose such a clatter,
The police sprang from the station to see what was the matter.
----
Away to the Pepsi Center they flew like a flash,
with batons swinging looking for heads to smash.
The smell of tear gas permeated the night
all knew that the oppressors were in for a fight,
When, what to America’s wondering eyes should appear,
But Recreate 68, showing no fear,
More rapid than eagles the protestors they came,
And comrades whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
"Now, Troops Out Now! now, SDS! now, R-68!
On, Unconventional Action! on Ruckus! Don’t be late!
To the top of the Capitol! Tear down the security wall!
the people’s power in action, oh what a ball!"
And then, in a twinkling, the end of four long nights
The Convention was over, but not the community’s plights.
Down the road people of all colors came from the community
we knew at that moment we created some unity,
with ideas from the festival of democracy swirling around in their head,
we knew that corporate controlled capitalism would soon be dead;
with the creation of a movement that included the poor,
we knew that there was a chance of ending this war.
With the National Lawyers Guild and the ACLU keeping us Free
Thank God it was pro-bono we couldn’t afford their fee!
We pulled back the curtain and exposed the hypocrisy
neither the Democrats or Republicans supported democracy;
The words in this poem can all become true
with hard work and organizing from people like you!
We can "Do It In Denver" if we plan right,
"Happy Holidays to all, and to all a good-night."

My, those were really, really bad, weren't they?

Stay tuned for next week's edition of...

Bad Progressive Poetry (and Political Endorsements!)

Rarely Do We Find Epic Poetry Of This Quality...

Leonard Pinth-Garnell here...

Wow.

Below is a truly epic, truly awful, bit of Bad Progressive Poetry.

Ode to the Final 3

There once was a boy named John who was called Johnnie
He was born impoverished and disadvantaged into white bread South Carolina
His Daddy worked long and hard in mills
His Momma help pay bills by carrying letters
Johnnie grew up in a two-income household long before it was fashionable
There once was a boy named Barack who was called Barrie
He was born middle of the road and all right into wheat bread Hawaii
His Daddy was troubled and gone early on
His Momma and her Family’s support paid bills and let him grow up innocent
Barrie grew up with a single Mom as a mixed race child long before it was accepted
There once was a girl named Hillary who was called Hillie
She was born with some privileges and advantages in WASP Chicago
Her Daddy owned his own mill
Her Momma stayed home and took care of her and the boys
Hillie grew up in a Ward and June Cleaver world
Johnnie grew up in mill towns sweeping floors and studying to run a mill
He witnessed segregation first hand in the Jim Crow South early on
His Daddy struggled to make sure there was plenty of time for studying
His Momma made sure those football games were attended
Johnnie grew up white and without financial advantage, yet dreamed of giving Daddy and Momma time-off
Barrie grew-up all over the planet dreaming bold for one of mixed race
He witnessed different customs and gained understanding of worldly culture
His Daddy was off in Kenya starting another family
His Momma made sure that he knew what love was and how to live his dreams
Barrie grew-up not quite white and certainly not black enough, yet dreamed of not having to worry, which mattered more
Hillie grew-up playing Tennis and completing Brownie tasks, she had a plan
She witnessed liberalism in a Conservative home and knew politics mattered
Her Daddy liked Republicans but was no wacko, more Eisenhower than Nixon
Her Momma saw her daughter’s potential nuturing it every night and day
Hillie grew-up really white and really well educated and was given every opportunity to do more than just keep a husband happy
Johnnie became John and tried to go to a nice Private college in Clemson
John couldn't afford it despite unloading boxes so he went public
John studied long and hard in Raleigh about blue-collar management
His dream changed, Lady Justice lured and he borrowed $ to practice law
He met Elizabeth in Chapel Hill and realized his abilities were not average, he was gifted
He got hitched had a boy named Wade and Girl named Cate and soon was making waves in the court room
Barrie became Barack went to California then realized he needed some Ivy
He was fortunate for strong academics and soon traded Columbia for Harvard
His dream was changing, no longer would the law do he wanted more
He met Michelle in Chicago and realized his abilities were not average he was gifted
He got hitched and had a girl named Malia Ann and another girl named Natasha and soon was making waves on the Southside
Hillie became Hillary went to Wellesley, knowing Ivy was next
Her strong background advantaged as it was got her to Yale
Her dream was not changing only becoming real as she built her resume
She met Bill in New Haven and realized she was beyond gifted she was extraordinary
She got hitched and had a girl named Chelsea and became a great Wife, Mother, Lawyer and made waves in Arkansas
John and Elizabeth were average Americans who made enough, living comfortably
John as a Daddy was fighting the good fight for folks in critical life altering situations, and he got to coach soccer and do uniquely American Activities
Elizabeth as a Momma kept the family in line and sitting back and enjoying the good life
Then Wade died and everything became stained and untenable the family almost fragmented but held together as families do not always do
John realized life was short and things needed to be done, the mills were calling and he decided to take on the mantle to be the people’s champion
John with Elizabeth driving him forward became a Senator but wanted to do bigger and better things and forged ahead when others said it was not the time raising just enough
Barack and Michelle were average Americans who made enough to live well enough
Barack as a Daddy was already in the political theatre quickly enough winning a state office early and failing in a bid for US Congress
Michelle as a Momma kept the family in line and sitting back and enjoying the good life
Then Barack decided enough with Springfield it was time to take the next step
Barack realized he wanted a larger mega phone to help those he was committed to early on and ran as and underdog for US Senate
Barack with Michelle driving him forward became a Senator but wanted do still do bigger and better things and forged ahead with others raising millions for him
Hillary and Bill were never average Americans who made enough but more importantly had power in Arkansas and Influence in the Democratic Party
Hillary as a Momma was a First Lady who got kicked out of the Governor’s Mansion briefly before returning in triumph and then headed to 1600 Pennsylvania Ave.
Bill as a Daddy was keeping the Family in the headlines as a promising leader and was at the front of pack trying to build a better America
Then Hillary wanted her own MS-DOS for America and decided to start in New York
Hillary realized she was going to be a Historical figure and waited out ’04 for ‘08
Hillary with bill staying out of the way became a Senator and did her due diligence in Washington and forged ahead when other said the time is now raising millions for her
John ran once for Senate and won, he ran once for President and lost, then was asked to run for Vice President by Kerry and lost that too.
Barack ran once for Senate and won, he was there for two whole years and decided the Presidency was next then was supported by Kerry
Hillary ran for Senate once and won, she could have already been President but liked her chances later better, she never asked for or wanted anything from Kerry
John banked on Iowa in ’08 to treat him better than ‘ 04, they did but not nearly well enough to give him the bump he needed.
Barack banked on Iowa in ’08 to treat him better than any black man in history and they did but it was not nearly well enough to impress New Hampshire
Hillary hated Iowa and should have skipped it, but they treated her so poorly that New Hampshire decided to rescue her.
John now is in dire straits and hopes to be rescued in his home of South Carolina
Barack is now in dire straits and hopes to be rescued by unions and minorities in Nevada and South Carolina
Hillary is now sitting pretty, looking forward to Super Tuesday in no need of rescue
What will all those Donkeys do?
Will they save the son of a mill worker who never thought about politics until just 10 years ago, will they give a black man a chance and show the world and history that anything is possible, or will they do what was always expected of them to give Hillary the keys to the kingdom with minimal fuss.
Nobody knows, not even the experts, but here’s hoping this thing does not shake out until August in Denver so that we can at least be entertained while the writers are on strike.

"Mm... That was really, really bad."

Note: I did not make this up. This was a real poem posted at a real - and very prominent - progressive web site. I repeat: I did not make this up!

It's Time For Another Edition Of Bad Progressive Poetry...

Leonard Pinth-Garnell here with another edition of...

Bad Progressive Poetry

You know, poetry - even in the hands of professionals - is rarely a good idea. However, when you put it in the hands of sensitive, earnest and thoroughly miffed progressives the result is often toxic. To prove that point, we humbly offer three progressive poems found on various progressive sites around the internets...

Soldiers
I saw them before they went
off to war in Nam, Iraq the first
time, Iraq the second, chips on
their shoulders so high you couldn't
see where they ended and needed
a wrecking ball on a crane to bring
them down. After two or three beers,
none of them could hold their whiskey
like the real men they thought they
were, they would go on about how
much they were going to love wasting
slant eyes or ragheads, the killing fields
and the glory. None of them were ever
going to get hit, wounded or killed,
nor was anyone they knew going either,
except, of course, in the abstract.
The ones that came back all said
the same thing, "It wasn't like
I thought it was going to be,
didn't feel like anything I ever thought
I'd feel. And the smell, oh, the god
damned smell of it." They could hold
their whiskey now, the whiskey was about

The Long Anger
when Cleveland sent troops to shoot the strikers in Pullman,
that still pissed me off

& when Rockefeller's goons burned women & children alive
at Ludlow, that too

& when Mr. Peabody had Baldwin & Felts cut the UMWA
wide, deep & repeatedly?

& when they hung the Molly Maguires, shot Joe Hill, castrated
Frank Little & locked the fire escape doors at Triangle & 147
shirt makers couldn't escape the fire and died?

don't get me started, OK?

likewise, from yesterday, when INS deported 500 immigrant
meat-cutters who got in easy because their bosses knew
they'd be easy to get out when they made trouble

to way, way back when, when that first planter saw that with
sugar so high there was more money in working his African
hands to death than in treating them decent

i've still got issues with that

A Poem
Chickenhawks chickenhawks
running our great land
Invading foreign countries
and taking craven stands

Sending other people's kids to die.
Their time will come when we ask WHY?

The stock of Halliburton went climbing through the roof
When asking why your father died, you should demand
the truth
It was not about the weapons (there were none there you
see)
It sure as hell was not about spreading democracy.

Bush's daughters aren't there
Nor Romney's children either
When asked why they aren't there (after all, they've
not defected)
He says they're serving Uncle Sam by getting him
elected.

All these brave chickenhawks may dream
I hope that they have nightmares.
But when we ask whose boots are these?

They surely aren't theirs