Once
again our heads split from the relentless assault of demoralizing news that hammers at our senses humanity and decency.
Tuesday night the Resident
capped of a week of horrors with his bizarre
but ominous blathering during
the Presidential debate which
climaxed by his instructions to his white nationalist/militia followers to “Stand down and Stand by” to rise up if
the election, as expected does not go his way. The hot breath of fascism has never been felt so strongly on our necks. That comes on the heels of his push to nominate and confirm a Supreme Court Justice before the election who will side with him in any challenges
to the vote’s legitimacy. His lackey
Attorney General declared great
American cities as “Anarchist
Jurisdictions,” Climate change fueled wild
fires continue to consume the West and the Coronavirus victim count continues to accelerate as Moron-in-Chief
attacks science. You would not have to cast
a stone far to hit any of a dozen
other outrages. It’s a lot. I
know, I know. And it can be demoralizing to the point of paralysis.
But,
take heart!
Way
back in 2013 I wrote a poem and posted it here. It was in the midst of a crisis that seemed at the time to be an overwhelming and immediate danger but in comparison
to what we have endured lately seems
downright quaint. As you may dimly remember back then the Republican
Congress made good on its chest
beating threats to let the government
shut down rather than pass a routine raise in the Debt Limit because they were in a life-and-death struggle with Barack Obama over, you know, stuff.
Experts—all of the folks who will proclaim that they know what they
are talking about—were predicting dire consequences up to and
including a world economic collapse that
would make the Great Depression look
like your mommy forgot to put a Twinkie in your lunch box.
It
turned out that after a few days of tourists
being turned away from the monuments and museums on the National Mall,
and some needy folks had some checks delayed, the bankers who hold the paper on the Republican Party applied some judicious
leverage and presto! A deal was worked out, the debt limit was raised, and everything got back, more or less, to normal, whatever the hell that is.
President Obama once again holding no more than a pair of deuces took the pot from
Mitch McConnell and Paul Ryan who had, you should excuse
the strained metaphor, a full house.
Of
course neither I nor anyone else knew the ultimate
outcome that day seven years ago. So
I felt compelled to speak to the situation not with stunning and astute analysis buy with a damn
poem.
In
my introduction to the verse that
day I wrote:
Political poetry has the shelf life of sushi on a
pushcart in Phoenix in August. It has a long
and noble history since the days
when long satirical ballads were printed anonymously in partisan newspapers, through the righteous radicalism dripping with the blood of workers and peasants,
to acid penned short pieces in the columns of
Puck
or The New Yorker. This is none
of those, but read it fast before it
evaporates from your screen.
It
turns out that this one recycles usefully
today. And may again in the
future….if we have a future.
This Morning
October 1, 2013
The sun rose this morning
heedless of
deadlines
of wails
and curses.
But that doesn’t mean
we must sit
idle
with
Zen-like equanimity.
The dew on the grass
invites the
first foot print.
The crystal air refreshes
our lungs.
The wind at our backs
pushes us
to action.
What they have done,
is done.
What we will do
is yet
unwritten.
We have but one resolve—
not to be
pawns
on their
chessboard
anymore.
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