[lit-ideas] Sunday Poem

  • From: "Mike Geary" <atlas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
  • To: "LIT-IDEAS" <lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
  • Date: Sun, 6 Jun 2004 20:10:50 -0500

SO THIS IS THE INEFFABLE


I was sitting in a soup can
playing with the alphabet
when a word wouldn't spell
-- it was a word I'd never seen,
no, nor ever heard,
but one I couldn't quell the need to spell --
what the hell?

So I gave the Goodwill my yesterdays.
All those Cadillac clothes and respectable ties
and all the lies a suit coat cries
and set out walking, listening to the talking
of a hundred million wretches
down the neon screaming stretches
of a coin-op culture,
and never once I heard the word
I needed to spell,
no, nor read.

Hey, Reagan's dead!
He trickled away at close of day
whispering "Peacekeeper".
But here's a sleeper:
Ten years ago Quigley's charts
quickly foretold the bold truth: "The man no longer farts
as of June fifth or maybe fourth
anno Domini two thousand and four, of courth."
Men with money and men with guns
wailed and wept,
remembering all the promises kept,
remembering all the extra funds,
remembering they're the excepted ones
to No Free Lunch.
Ah, who could ever forget the charm of dear old Dutch,
how he supplied weapons to Contra terrorists,
how he trained the death squads of El Salvador to kill the lefttists
all in the School for the Americas,
how he pumped money into the Guatemalan military
so they could bury
the hundred thousand Mayans they had slain,
all trained
in the School for the Americas
how he connived with Battalion 316
to disappear Hondurans by magic tricks
taught in the School for the Americas,
there's no sinning,
at Ft. Benning,
that's just teflon Ron still grinning.
Look at that smile! God, I'd go the mile for the Gipper.
Though he be Jack the Ripper,
Still, let's not dwell on the harm, let us remember the charm of good old
Ron.
OK so he sold weapons to both Iraq and Iran.
Where's the beef?
That's my belief.

I'm sitting on a rock beside a highway somewhere between Osage and Crawford,
Texas.
The asphalt's so hot I'm afraid it's going burst into flame any minute now.
Here comes another ninety-mile-an-hour Lexus.
No chance they'll stop, but I thumb 'em anyhow.
They don't even slow down to see if maybe I'm a respectable and deserving of
a ride
Everything they want they've got that and lots more beside.
Security wouldn't let me past the gate of George's place.
yeah, like they've got something to hide.
Told me to beat it and never again show my face,
else they'd run me out of town on a rail.
I had a spelling question for George.  He's no Dan Quayle,
but being President I'm sure whatever he says goes
whether he knows
of which he speaks or not
so is it asking such a lot
that he supply the spelling
of that something beyond all telling.?
What would Wittgenstein do,
had he the motive and the cue
for spelling that I do?


Mike Geary
speechless at last


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