“The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?”
–William Butler Yeats
By Gary Corseri
January 27, 2011
“Truly men hate the truth; they’d liefer
Meet a tiger on the road.” — Robinson Jeffers
What it’s not
First, let’s clarify: a “meme” (rhymes with “scream”) is not what Sarah Palin says when she goes on a family outing with her daughter; as in, “Meme Bristol’s gonna shoot up some mooses.”
Even in herspeak, that don’t get it.
What it is
By Gary Corseri featured writer Dandelion Salad Nov. 17, 2008
The preposition is apt. We are not in the season, not even in the spirit of the season, but we feel it upon us, like a nightmare chimera. Many feel oppressed and depressed by it. We struggle for more light.
Perhaps it’s better to call it the shopping season.
via Dandelion Salad
They want me to go and vote again,
To sanction their rigamarole;
For all their rot and all their snot—
To trade my immortal soul!
They want me to tell’em: Thanks for the choice
Twixt Tweedle Dum and Dee;
Or that that vixen with the whiny voice
Is kinda my cuppa Tea.
In all fairness, one ought to spread the blame around: the editors of the Atlantic, and the mainstream media in general, are even more culpable than Michael Kinsley for promulgating the absurd fictions of Mr. K’s “The Least We Can Do”—the cover piece in the current issue of the once notable Atlantic.
Here’s how it begins: “Self-absorbed, self-indulged, and self-loathing, the Baby Boom generation at last has the chance to step out of the so-called Greatest Generation’s historical shadow.”
Sometimes the grapes really are sour!
The wonder is … how you eat them!
At some point you convinced yourselves–
Wow! This is delicious!
You developed a taste for sour.
You ate lemons straight–the more sour, the better.
You puckered up for a kiss
And your lips were sour.
Sir, how do you write a poem?
Simple, my boy.
I will tell you. …
Set up a sturdy blackboard,
And scratch your nails across it.
Take your sharpened nails
And carve a hundred niches
Into your arms and thighs,
Into your chest and belly.
“Why should I worry about posterity? What has posterity ever done for me?”
The Sun is blazing, blazing, blazing.
A thread of the Sun pulls me along.
(I cannot say “forward.”
Like everyone, I’ve lost my sense of direction.)
“’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe….”
“Enough for everyone; too much for none.”
My house is foreclosed on, my job is outsourced, and my wife runs away with a banker. So…,I figure there’s nothing left to do but pack up the old mini-van, head on down to New Orleans and start a new life as a singer of blues. My border collie, Woof, rides shotgun, his handsome muzzle sticking part way out the window.
“Something’s wrong somewhere”
–Clifford Odets (“Golden Boy,” 1937)
“Something’s wrong somewhere”
–William Saroyan (“My Heart’s in the Highlands,” 1939)
It’s unlikely that Michelle or Barack Obama have read or given much thought to American playwrights Clifford Odets and William Saroyan. Both men found their soaring voices during the Great Depression—great grand-daddy of the “Great Recession.” (Frankly, I prefer to call it what it is, “Great Depression II.”) Then, as now, it took gutsy artists to cut through the rich-slime world of Fred Astaire-Ginger Rogers Hollywood fantasies, to announce that the Emperor and Empress were wearing nothing but their vanity.
By Gary Corseri
June 15, 2010
All this nambypambyism about the Gulf Oil Spill has got me down, so I figured I’d go to the smartest guy on the planet to get his what’s what.
I met Stephen Hawking at his perch at the Mt. Palomar observatory. It took me a few moments to get used to his computer-generated voice, but once I did, it was the only voice I could imagine being attached to that kind of cerebrum.
“I like to look at the stars,” he told me. “It puts our little mortal lives into high relief.”
[tweetmeme source= “DandelionSalads” only_single=false]
Does Israel have a “right to exist”? Do we?
It’s a shibboleth of the Zionist entity: “Israel has the right to exist!”
But what is this “Israel”? What is this “right to exist”?
Where is it written? Is it in Holy Scripture? “The Song of Songs”? “The Book of Job”? “Proverbs”? “Ecclesiastes”?
Is it written in stone on two tablets by the finger of God?
What does it mean when a people declare that they have the “right to exist” as they please because they are a “democracy,” but other people have no such right? I solemnly declare my elections legitimate—the will of my people–, but … it is obvious that you people over there (in Gaza, in Turkey, in Iran, etc.) do not have the capacity to choose leaders who can represent your true interests!
They did it in broad daylight. “Money … speech—what’s the diff?” they cackled, sucking a corporate tit. Then they wrung Liberty’s neck—cracked it like a chicken’s.
That same day the bank foreclosed on my home. I offered a speech to the broad-brim hatted sheriff. “Money … speech—what’s the diff?” I asked.
His deputies kicked my kids right down the road.
“If money is the same as speech, surely speech is the same as money!” I averred, but … he failed to acknowledge my logic.
I went to my cousin, Vincenzo. “Whadda we gonna do? What the hell can we do?”
“I’m gonna make them an offer they can’t refuse,” he said, chomping a Cuban stogie.
I just called the Jack Rice radio show on Air America. Rice’s show is new to the D.C. area, so I got through the phone vetting process fairly easily. I waited a minute or two and then Rice took my call on air.
I was pretty clear about what I wanted to say. Rice had actually set things up the day before when he said that their likely defeat in the Massachusetts race for the Senate seat vacated by Ted Kennedy’s death would—hopefully!—cause Congressional Democrats to “grow a pair,” withdraw the health care reform bill as is, and then re-submit the much stronger bill that the majority of Americans were hoping for when they voted for Obama a year ago.