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in
the poor places tonite |
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In The Poor Places Tonite...
A sea of choking hazard
quality plastic falls from the rented convention hall. Angles shift constantly making security work overtime. In three months time, America
will vote for the new or next, President of the United States.
Thank itself not, for the best system, the better of two evils on the ticket, but will wage, the best system yet for the progress of the last 228 years. |
"To
be certain, in the middle, we have found both
Buddha and John Wayne Gacy." |
Mixing politics
with ink is a severe cause in American politics, in fact, an American tradition even Ben Franklin
couldn’t help save himself from. So much, he wrote an apology for it. Today, at the rate people buy up line
ads, it seems this tradition, is one that never goes out of style. And style here, is from every quarter
that keeps the sleepless---from hunger. Keeps the food lines one
dream away from a lost cause. Keeping with tradition, please place
suggestions at the foot of the open door policy. And whether coming
or going - please place non-perishables in the cardboard box, we
may need them. |
Thanksgiving
is either three months away or eight months behind, that, depending
on which savages you decide to trust. Take the fish and live with
the miracle, or, keep the city on the hill an east coast "jam" that pauses for tea. Who you sit at this feast, resolved to keeping
one average Harvard student in office, or, bringing a decorated veteran who saved lives,
into office. Understood, in either case,
that no one was asking for anything more at this time. After all, when we pray and receive
the lesser of two evils; the truth is reduced. What we’ll
ask for, and, what we’re willing to believe - our debt to this winter of discontent. “This Land is Your Land” was written
by Woodie Guthrie in the 40’s. It wasn’t about the
sticky lacquer of church pews, or the unfinished business of a
feast that continues to inspire generations of school book authors who color
gentle folk tales, but do not plaint with the colors of those who first called this land home. Indeed, where there is nothing, when it comes to painting over the savagery of colonialist, there is meaning.
By whatever hand that moves another hand across
the check book, Christian Childrens Fund continues their technologically superior assault
on insomniacs. In a more recent ad, the number to call is flashed against the
background of a train moving---and 20 decibles louder than the ad itself. Amidst an array of vsione and sleep aid commercials, Christian Childrens Fund takes no prisoners. Can hope be afforded for the cost of
a cup of coffee? Coffee? At this hour? For those who can't afford a cup of coffee a day, who want a voice above the din of economic and financial isolation, the work load triplicates. The
fabled pink slip---hikes up its leg at the first sign of fatigue, of a sick child, of an emergency personal phone call.
Shaken out of the exhasation of a day job and, a night job, they are left to wonder, why would people give them money?
Half-and-half, media pundits and superbowl anchors invite
the "other" side to their show, as if "balance" has something more to do with
ideology, than a trapeze act without a net. Interrupting one another for confirmations
before an audience who have no voice, the bitter and the sweet rhyme. I think of my friends, who are neither; quaint,
kind or undefined in the Tao’s, sinking in the static. Friends tired, hungry and living without cable---to update the refrain found on the foot of the Statue of Libery, friends, made invisible in the cable colloquy. I change the channel. For some, cable is a tax write off. A way to not pay for the war in between days. A way to steer clear of murderous logic bombs like “civilian
casualities”. After all, education is for those that can humble themselves before history, soldiers are first, people, then citizens, then soldiers. There is no
need for cinematic cynicism and media theory, a mere glance spells it out all too clearly for me. Fourteen friends with children,
divorces, god, art scenes, AIDS, L.A., New York---and hopes, all behind them. Soft
to the punch in middle age, friends muted by whispers of those that
say “they never did anything, and that’s why there life is like it is.” Too tired for
cause, too practical to be impoverished by the thoughts of others. Split ticket in hand, they are, and we are, half of a decision
less to make on a Tuesday in November.
In the percentiles – from sampling of 5,000 questioned, the presidential
bid is an even 50-50 when considering margin for error. Truth is, in any crop circles cluster demographic you've got the money, to spend "soft" money on, people who are running things, are just who you'd think outta be running things, things being what they are. My vote goes to the lady
who takes in three more cats, because she can share dinner with them.
Nothing
new under the sun here, that there have always been hungry and poor. I wonder, but what what will we feed on once we regurgitate this stomach full of thieves.
Poetry don’t feed the hungry, but it fills mouths. This, despite lending
itself to analogies that aim for its defeat. To be certain, there have always
been those few, and these few, generation over generation, estimable, but ever at the margins. We should not settle and we should be wary of the divisions. They create middles, and in the middle, we have found both
Buddha and, John Wayne Gacy.
Lance Oditt
May 2004 |
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