Back from work*

In Current reading, Irish Mist, Local projects, Poetry on November 19, 2014 at 7:45 pm

In today’s media, the French Prime Minister is proud to announce the figures are down on break-ins and other such criminal activities.  Excellent news, if this isn’t a standard case of switching the labels on reported infractions.

Damn lucky too (if it’s true), since the administration of justice is up against a few problems. Budget cuts, for instance. Yes or no, can we afford the DNA expert in this trial? If we can’t afford him but need him anyway, do we pay him or do we wait for him to sue? Can we afford ink for the court printer? (The answer, in one case : yes, if we all switch to the Garamond typeface and keep copies to a minimum. To a minimum. You mean, use your computers instead? – Yes – What if we don’t have a working computer?)

And so on. I guess the powers that be figure that, as long as they don’t acknowledge that the country is in deep shit, they can play the mommy-daddy number. “No, mommy and daddy aren’t angry, honey. Daddy… daddy will be back real soon. No, no, mommy isn’t crying, she caught a fly in her eye, that’s all. Go play now, I’ll make supper real soon.”

In other words, the powers-that-be treat us like retards because even a three-year-old knows what that means.

Of course, the world isn’t what it was when Steinbeck wrote The Grapes of Wrath. Europe isn’t America. France isn’t the Dustbowl. Yet, I read Steinbeck. I listen to the stories people tell me. I read the news. In the States, thirty-seven percent of the voters showed up at the polls. I bet a lot of people think: shame on the other sixty-three percent. Except, people aren’t all stupid. Apart from those who wanted to vote but couldn’t, because of changes in the rules, I bet a lot more didn’t bother showing up because they knew the game was rigged. You want to play when you know the winners will use your vote as their ticket to do as they please?


Writing? Yes. Nowhere as fast as I used to. Poetry? How about a Basho haiku:

Wake up, wake up

I want to be your friend

slumbering butterfly



* and yes, sixty-eight years old and counting? I’m damn lucky to have a job.


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