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assess the failures of the national antiwar groups, even as popular
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Now!
the cats said it would be easy
but they thought the game was played with whiskey
but the boys knew better, knew the tough truth
the con with the Cubs and all the rest of it comes down to money
the fun is standing in the middle of this long running tale
while a trio of bustouts killing time for free drinks
blasts some old Ellington out the door of The Turtle
horsehide on a windy spring day
children in grandparents dress
fools in pinstripe cloth
beer here, bleachers there
at the Pioneer League stadium three blocks away
they love the game when it's played by ancient rules
a buxom sweetie in a blue tank top says I'm confused
we all are announce the boys with lazy lecherous intent
where's Willie someone asks
she's the tall girl down front says ms. Buxom
these things are easy
it's an old game, the façade is the joke
that's what they all believe and it works
makes some sense
remember Ernie and the laughs we used to have
was it old times or stupidity rising in a crazed situation
put in Brock someone yells
the game's a joke and the boys know it
but belief has never mattered
old women have young dreams and they love the game, too
spring makes an appearance, the game returns
an old friend is back
John Holt fled the friendly confines of Chicago
to Montana. He can be reached at:hunted@wispwest.net
New Speak Green
By ADAM ENGEL
Remember the day green
went weird?
Swathes and patches
pocked our suburb
like guerrillas:
I'm talking specifics,
specifically, the power
to name, know, recall.
Words, for instance, like
"hydrangea," "azalea," "birch,"
once connected to THINGS,
drop: dead skin flaking
from our sap-less lexicon.
We cannot name, nor can we recall
beyond the general blur-fuzzy of
green generic smear and pinkish buds.
Genus. Genus. Genus.
We say "Bushes."
We say "Trees."
Verdant obfuscation muddles, mollifies,
this pain of loss. But was "it" lost,
or did we never know anything at all?
I fear my own backyard: flora-phobia;
the green terror: I'm goofy with names.
Imagine the awkwardness, obscene humiliation,
of encountering an "oak" or "pine," or
whatever you call such shrubbery,
and having nothing, absolutely nothing,
to recall, but:
"tree," "bush," "weed," "abomination."
Time to Get Goin'
(part 2)
Impeaching with the Resident
by MORT SUBIET
Mort Subiet: Your relentless
crusade to spread democracy in Iraq is
out of hand. What do you have to say to your newest constituency?
The Resident: "I want
the Iraqi people to hear I've got confidence
in their capacity to get goin' -- it's about time they got it
together.
If democracy fails to provide the resources to eliminate and
ensure
a redeployment of dependence these mixed messages are heading
in the wrong direction."
Mort Subiet: But the Iraqi
people have never really governed themselves.
The Resident: "They have
some catchy sound bites to go ahead with
things. I believe that people are going to look back on reports
that
are being completely distorted. I honestly don't care much about
these matters -- I look at the democratic mechanisms instead."
Mort Subiet: You recently
sent a letter to Iraq's supreme Shiite,
Ayatollah Ali al-Sistani. It was hand-delivered this week --
but it
reportedly sits on his desk unread and untranslated. What are
you going to do about this?
The Resident: "I plan
to detonate a big ole' explosive charge called
"Divine Strike" -- sending a message that will echo
all around the
world. I don't want to sound glib but this will be the first
time you'll
see a mushroom cloud since we stopped using nuclear weapons.
But don't worry, we're making sure Las Vegans and the Ayatollah
understand what we're capable of doing in a democracy."
Mort Subiet: Have you ever
considered impeaching yourself?
The Resident: "Peaches?
What's the matter with the peaches?
Mort Subiet: I'll take that
as an unempathetic "No."
(to be continued)
Mort Subiet's art work can be seen at the Third
Page.
Msg From Baghdad
By FRANK B. FORD
Same as Big Easy's.
Raw getting' round
thieves on the ground.
Insane! Money
never lost a war.
Or hurricane.
Frank Ford bikes among bloated vehicles in Florida.
He can be reached at: frank_b_ford@yahoo.com
Simple Simon
By ROBERT DAVIES
Simon met a Pie-in-the-Skyman
Going to the fair
Says Simon to the pie-in-the-Skyman
"Let me taste your ware."
Says the pie-in-the-Skyman
to Simon,
"Show me first your faith."
Says Simon to the pie-in-the-Skyman,
"Indeed, I have the hate."
He went to hire a dicky bird
And thought he could not fail
Because he'd got a little turd
To put upon his tail.
Simple Simon stroked a stallion
Which now grew strong and long
And promptly threw him down upon
The ground, such a ding-dong.
Simple Simon went to look
A-bombs that grew on thistle;
He pricked his fingers very much
Which made poor Simon whistle.
Simple Simon's vice-man went
hunting
For to catch a quail;
The bird he shot was, you're guessing,
a member of NRA.
He went for oil with only a
sieve
But soon it all ran through,
And now poor Simple Simon
Bids you all adieu.
CounterPunch
Speakers Bureau Sick of sit-on-the-Fence speakers, tongue-tied and timid?
CounterPunch Editors Alexander Cockburn and Jeffrey St Clair
are available to speak forcefully on ALL the burning issues,
as are other CounterPunchers seasoned in stump oratory. Call
CounterPunch Speakers Bureau, 1-800-840-3683. Or email beckyg@counterpunch.org.