Inside Joke

It really isn't funny; that's the rub,
Suggesting we afford a bigger net
To harbor any falling, and to bet
The falling circumstances, or the.hub
Of all our woes with money shouldn't change,
Is.much alike to circus-folk, trapeze,
When weaker rope to swing upon with ease
Results in but a net with bigger range,
And not, as well, replacements for the rope
That time and tear are sure to wear away.
The day will come when falling, as it may
Occur, will be an easy thing to cope
Withal, but I would rather set aside
Our spending, so as not to force the tide.

Blustering

The fighting isn’t quite as very high
As any in the press would have it seem,
Or any giving speeches, or the teeming
Mass of angry followers, applying
Epithets to all the other side.
It’s really very simple: middle ground
Is where the politicians still around
Will finally be seated, each astride
Their bitter opposition.  All the rest
Is pandering to bases, or to claim
They fought the better fight, the very aim
Of honorable soldiers, and the best
And brightest, and, of course, the very men
We foolishly elected here again.

Death and Taxes

Raul is less and less about the great
And final, epic battle for the means
To handle all production. Though he leans
Decidedly to communism, fate
Is odd in its admission to reality,
The Cuban people having grown
Beyond the smaller needs that would intone
The name of Che Guevara.  The legality
Of making citizens the main
Recipient of duties, for to raise
The revenue for government and days
Ahead, is little better than the gain
Begotten from the older Cuban way,
But, still, a little better, should it stay.

Triad

The Drudge Report is readying the war
To occupy the office. Have a drink;
And though it's far too early here to think
Of naming nominees, the very core
Of quicker-thinking policy is this:
Deciding a decision ere it's made,
Before the people know they're being played,
Is better for continuing the bliss
Of politics and party. There's a hint
Of borderline conspiracy therein,
When we begin to question how to win
With estimated tools, and so a glint
Of overarching purpose will appear
With nothing more than chasing a career.

Sarcasm

There’s really nothing further here to say.
An entertainer Democrat, a man
Who long has lived in Cali, is a fan
Of Democrats in office.  Any day
That partisans are giving angry talk
Is odd indeed, when politics abound
In beneficial sentiment, around
A leader, put in power, to the shock
On all his opposition.  So the news
Will commentate on politics, and race,
Will mourn the very blasphemy defacing
What had been a kind exchange of views
About Barack Obama.  And it’s fair
To think them all an idiot to care.

Homage to Catalonia

A professor of mine once told me that one of his favorite things about the people of Catalonia was the way that they allowed the statues of their conquerors to slowly waste away, rather than pulling them down at once. The wind, rain, and occasional drunken urination eventually pulled the facial features from the statues, which is the greatest insult of all - the conquerors were so insignificant that no one then remembered who they were.

Give homage to the region where the head
Of conquering Napoleon is bare,
Uncovered to the urine and the air
Corroding off the image he had bred
Too briefly in a land so very long
Accustomed to autonomy.  Alas,
The very independence given pass
To argue for itself, in being strong,
Is threatened by its strength, and by a vote.
If Arthur Mas is able, let him be
The leader of the patient and the free,
But never let the voting be the rote
And easy way to disavow the claim
That Catalan and people are the same.

The Final Shot

The shooting’s still a mystery, alas.
The man for whom the nation stood agape,
And focused on the plotting taking shape,
Is recently interred.  The very pass
That he had been receiving on the set,
When loaded up and riding over lines
As if the page had bred with hidden mines
That threatened here to blow if he had met
A word without his eviler approach,
Is one of many reasons he was good,
And very good, at acting if he would,
At anytime, do bad.  I wouldn’t broach
The subject of his Ewing deep in hell,
But sit and briefly miss him for a spell.

Black Friday

A fatty is ahead of me in line.
I really wanna get a better deal,
Dividing all the aisles, so to feel
The better way to getting what is mine.
I’ve gotten in some seven separate fights.
It’s harder than it’s ever been before
To keep afoot when running through the door,
Resisting any urge to hit the lights
In faces ‘round my own.  The money’s in,
The line is filling up, and I am out
Of better methods for to think about
The gifts that I’m receiving, for the sin
That’s taken far away, and for the hope
Forgotten while in line between the rope.

Thanksgiving

You could be overseas. Be thankful.

Thanksgiving is a day to wait in line
To save a couple hundred.  I’ll salute
The many dedicated and astute
And early eager shoppers.  By design,
And very good design, I’m very sure
That I am never meant to join within
The bargain-hunting pack; the very thin
And precious, tiny window I’d endure
To find a cheaper stereo is all
I’d need to get spectacularly drunk
(I did it this Thanksgiving), and I thunk,
In verbage too ineloquent, the call
That soldiers overseas had heeded, while
We sat home, with bounty, and a smile.

But hurry up and gather single-file.

Hell

Israeli children have never known peace. Palestinian children have always known humiliation. And it astonishes me, every time I watch people argue Mideast geopolitics, that people assume that a generation reared on terror and/or humiliation can possibly function rationally or peacefully. Those are luxuries of peace, and stability. And that is why, for all its faults, I'm very glad I live in the US.

They’ll never have another day of peace.
Israeli children didn’t settle in
Before the rock and rocket, ere the win
In ’67, or the final cease
In British observation.  They have known
A horror all their hours, when a boom
Is able to remove the very room
In which they’re living peacefully.  The grown
And fearful Palestinians, as well,
Have never known a day upon the land
Their father’s father fled, and from it banned.
And very glad am I that such a hell
Is far away in my United States.
For here, at least, we’ve only the debates.

And not the fighting, gore, and ancient hates.

Fatigue, and Its Consequences

I'm guessing that it's sad I didn't know
That any in the government cannot,
Without a proper warrant, here allot
My writing for perusing, to bestow
Imprisonment, arrest, or keeping eyes
To see if I'm a terrorist.  The bill
Encompasses the agencies, to fill
A list of Bigger Brothers in the guise
Of keeping me protected.  I had not
Considered this a major breach of faith,
Considering the ease with which a wraith
Of despotism slipped us in a knot,
And leaving us to argue where a line
Should in the sand our failure intertwine.

Hello, Kitty

I notice some dissension in the ranks.
The thought of higher taxes isn’t one
That galvanizes citizens, the fun
In taxing being government’s; the thanks
For taking on the loss is all our own.
But this is far more sober than a call
To take the monied rich, and put the fall
On businessmen who marginize, and hone
The art of hoarding wealth to a degree
That’d make a noble coil back in shame.
The theft of working men is not the aim
Of high and greater taxes, but a free
And greater middle class.  And so they all,
The Left, the Right, declare, before a fall.

Liar, Liar, vs. Liar

Petraeus may have known, or may have not,
That bullets in Benghazi were a plan
And not an angry gathering. The man
Has stated that he knew, and though I ought
To skepticism keep, I'm not inclined
To think a liar he who made Iraq
A more recovered place. I'd rather chalk
Discrepancies to he who had a mind
To loiter in campaigning. Still, alas,
With all my preconceptions put aside,
I'm siding with a man I know has lied,
Condemning here the other, giving pass
To fiction when it's military grade.
The politics about it have me played.

Dome of the Rocket, II

The dome is of the rocket yet again.
Were I Israeli, with a better mind,
And working to alleviate the kind
Of threat and certain death that any men
Across the eastern border let aflame,
I'm betting I would wish my talents, all
In service to avoiding here a fall
To foreign hate, or our domestic shame,
Be better put to use.  An engineer,
Creating better places and machines,
To take the full advantage of Rabin's
Unenviable peace, without a fear,
Can make the world a marvel of a place,
Instead of with an evil keeping pace.

Hostess with the Mostess

Behold, a mighty falling: in its wake,
The symbol of my sugar-driven youth,
The perishable Twinkie, or, in truth,
The hostess with the mostess, and her cake,
Are all in liquidation. What a shame;
I used to eat 'em daily, or within
An hour would another stroll begin
To automatic vendors, putting blame
Upon the cake itself. And there's a chance
A buyer may be betting he would gain
A profit in upsetting here the pain
The fall of Twinkie brings, for the romance
Will guarantee that we will buy some more.
Secure the rights; keep open here a store.

Cyclical

I wonder if the Drudge Report, in time,
Assuming the economy recovers,
Any more inflation merely hovers,
Poverty to any further climb
Refuses, and the citizens begin
To trickle back to work, be better fed,
And feel a change of heart with how he's led,
Will Matt, et. al. begrudge him here a win,
Or claim what I believe to be the truth,
That, putting all the politics aside,
The president is taken for a ride
More often than he drives, and any youth
Removing him from office will restore
The problems mom and dad had fled before?

Hell, et. al.

I'd rather write a poem on Petraeus,
Being in a courtroom with his wife,
The gossip running round, reporting rife
With stories of a fall, like Menelaeus
Bringing down a kingdom for a girl
Than any of the blood and hatred here.
I've read Amira Haas, beheld the fear
In any young Israeli at the hurl
Of rocks at Haredim, and read aloud
The wars in Gaza, Lebanon, the rest -
I fear a pessimism here is best.
The IDF will trail behind a cloud,
And suffer in a bloody, tribal storm,
Where violence has ever been the norm.

Sex, in General

It only took a day for me to care
As much about Petraeus, and the few
Within the cheating, jealous retinue
That he had here created, unaware
That it would capture all the world’s attention,
Being, as it was, a mini soap – 
As Kim, or Chloe, Snooki – as the hope
That televised reality would mention
Anything to hinder my belief
That I’d be better off intoxicated,
Drunk philosophizing, unabated
By the shameful parody of grief.
It’s quite enough to make me quit the news
When general sex is all I’ve to peruse.

Mine, Mine, Mine

Petraeus got a little on the side.
The side had got a little settled in,
And, fearing that a coup might e’er begin,
Began a vain attempt to sit astride
Petraeus permanently.  Pity, she
Had only her possessiveness to blame
For losing what had been her biggest claim
To keeping her in service, that a free
And, as of yet, still hidden paramour
Had yet avoided answering to men
Who’d make him quit ere seeing her again.
I wonder what our jealousy is for,
But losing what we’d never really gained
While we attempt to keep it all contained.

Golan

The Golan never rests, but I suppose
That any ground that’s high enough in war
Will all the safety it’s intended for
Be evermore denied.  And if it goes
Too violently there, the man Assad
Will have a greater worry than revolt.
A parabolic mortar to a Colt
Is this Israeli army to the mad
And roving, poor militiamen; the job
Of keeping down rebellion is a task
The elder Assad knew he shouldn’t ask
Permission for, nor Israel to a lobbied
Voting politician put the vote
To take the ground in question, and of note.

Shame, and Politics

Beware the local honey trap.  Alas,
The woman needn’t be a foreign spy
Or working for the government, denying
Whistleblowing men a final pass
To spread their key intelligence.  The man
Is someone I admired; I had read
His praises written long by men who said
They’d follow him to hell, that any plan
That brought Iraq to life again was his.
And though the bad finagling of all
That fear his resignation is appalling,
There is naught remaining here that isn’t
Minor when against a hero, down,
And quitting ere his actions make him drown.

Lost in Translation

I don’t believe a politician.  There – 
A statement I can evenly apply
To any given party, ere a lie
Arises, for to guard against the bare
And simple truth of politics.  Behold:
Republicans will flock around the news
That Mitch is sticking firm unto his views
That taxes shouldn’t grow before the cold
Encompasses the Devil in his hell.
They might be disappointed, for the man
May promise more in speeches than he can
Deliver.  If the opposition fell,
He might’ve had a chance, but with a fight
Are promises abused, and set alight.

Unsupersized

McDonald’s isn’t selling all the meat
It sold in prior months, a little shock
For any with an artery to block
With hot, delicious grease.  The very feat
Of having rising sales for many years,
And suffering a fall of one percent
Should be a sign the company is meant
To last the economic fall.  The fears
That this is due to Tuesday, and the vote,
Are likely to be had among the Right,
Ignored among the Left, and, thus, a fight
Occurring over patties will demote
The dialogue another notch below
The level of a circus, and a show.

Wolf-Crying

It's the end of the world and the republic, just like every other time it's been the end of the world and the republic when a controversial president is elected, from Jefferson all the way down to Obama.

I’ve but a small prediction.  Here it is:
The country, now divided, as before,
Will claim to be divided at its core,
Unprecedented, all because of his
Election (but it’s false).  And any fall
In favor, or the markets, or the way
That any rare occurrence makes a play
Within our coming history will all
Be placed upon his shoulders (wrong again).
How quickly we forget that we have done
This many times before, and we have won,
And lost, and still survived so many men,
And after all predictions of our doom
Have faded, we have yet a little room
To all forget, and crazily assume
The next election’s nailed us in a tomb.  

Almost Over, III

I’d rather see a movie, read a book,
Or study ancient Grecians, or appease
The slowly colder weather with an ease
That ever so suggests that any look
The darker nights are giving me is all
I need for hibernation, or a while
Waiting underground for any smile
Coming from the masses, with a pall
Suggesting all the world is crashing down
If so-and-so’s elected.  Give it rest.
And, casting off your vote, I think it best
To well recall we sat in fear of drowning
Every new election, but afloat
We still remain, surviving here the vote.

Almost Over, II

The fight is nearly over.  So, huzzah,
And may the poor relationships created
By the long and ne’er insatiated
Anger at the coming coup d’etat
Be satisfied, and healed.  Too many fights,
Too many times that I’ve been called a fool,
Or called a friend an idiot (the rule
That governs a discussion on the rights
Of any opposition in debate
About an issue none have very well
Accomodated, mastered, given hell
In any way correctly, being hate
And hating their intelligence).  The end
Is nearing; all your fighting words amend.

Almost Over

Elections are a hurdle for the spirit,
Making many reasons to remain
Anonymous when people make it plain
That evil is dissent and any near it,
Heaping all the blame for any wrong
On all who came before, or here refusing
All responsibility for bruising
All the chances we have had along
The way to keeping in, or kicking out,
The one who, most of all, is very much
The weakest in his quick attempts to touch
The course of these United States.  The rout
That sends him home is proof enough of this:
We’ll stay the awful course, with none amiss.

Offended. Sort Of. No.

I can’t believe that this is all the news
That’s fitting for a banner.  Any care
I have for any slogan, unaware
That it is but a slogan, put in booze
And shaken to a frothing, angry mob
To pacify a base, does not exist.
I’d rather give America the gist
Of all the words in politics, to daub
The world in all complexity to this:
My opposition hates the very earth,
And finds it very easy for to birth
The evil that’s among us, the abyss
In which we mustn’t fall, so go and vote,
Or vote, to fell or keep the ship afloat.

Rorschach, V

It’s always entertaining to observe
A group of very interested folks
Determine a maneuver for to coax
The better-favored truth to give a curve
To interested parties, when the whole
Of all the data known is very dark,
And any indication that a mark
Is given for to navigate a stroll
Through what is but an inkblot is a joke
That’s all but very lost upon the few
Who dare to guess what other voters do
When certainty is lost, and going broke,
And guessing is the only way to go
When waiting for a verdict, and a show.

Perspective

I know I’d never say the very words
That I’m about to say, were I within
The line that’s stretching patience very thin
And waiting on necessities, the herds
In waiting growing bigger by the hour,
Hurting for a thing so very small
That any other time would ne’er at all
Be thought a major difficulty – power,
Gas, or double As – or, likely, Ds,
The kind that any flashlight may require,
Sitting in the dark and feeling ire
Rise at the injustice.  All of these
Are reasons I would rant, and would connive,
Forgetting, then, that I am still alive.

Quack

I’ve gone to meet the Lord, and she is black.
(I’d heard it said before.)  And any phrase
That might invoke the passing of his days
Is hardly worth the effort giving back
If it is all sobriety and weight.
“You know that he was not a righteous man,”
Referring, there, to Jesus – so began
The first of many teachings, or debate
On Luther, or The Brothers, or, alas,
On skipping class for women (it was not
As awful as suggested).  When he taught.
I listened.  I had thought to raise a glass
In recognition ere his final bow,
But hesitance would never that allow.
For all his words are far too sober now.