The Relapse
Well, I've been remiss in not posting here in a while, so I'm going to make one last post in 2005 and then collect myself for a few weeks until Jan 1, 2006. My New Year's resolution is to post a new poem at the start of every month, so people won't be wasting time wondering if there's anything fresh up here or not.
There are some developments on the poetry front to report; first of all my book has been reviewed in a couple of places, and here are the urls: http://www.newsreview.com/issues/Sacto/2005-11-24/mixbook.asp.
and http://whimfetishandblogorrhea.blogspot.com/ (scroll all the way down).
I'm also hosting the second go-round of my radio show for writers on KSSU, the Sac State student-run radio station. Don't bother looking for it on your dial (it's 1580 AM), the signal is very weak. Your best bet is to get live streaming audio from the website at kssu.com. Clear as a bell. The show's times are a bit funky, due to limited scheduling options, but here they are:
Wednesday Nov. 30, 9:00 to 10:00am
Thursday Dec. 1, 10:00-11:00am
Wednesday Dec. 7 6:00-7:00pm
Tuesday Dec. 13. 9:00 to 10:00am
Anyway, the poem I'm posting for today is something inspired by a National Inquirer cover story about George W. Bush's (alleged) renewed drinking binges, apparently caused by the fact that suddenly everyone hates him, including his own father and many old cronies. I was having trouble coming up with a title for this one, so help on that score would be especially appreciated. I had originally thought of "The Madness of King George" or "Bush's Madness" or "Bush's Relapse" but I settled on "The Relapse" as the least over the top.
The Relapse
By night the President stumbles disheveled
and muttering down the White House halls,
strung out on the dishonest habit
of governing those his work appals.
The conscientious self-destruction
he once pursued now follows him,
like journalists investigating
a charge of corruption and falsehood. A grim
belligerence sends in its chemical weapons—
new habits die hard and old ones are reborn.
Unguarded, he tastes a treacherous foreign
vintage: mortality. Those he won't mourn
come back with a scornful toast on their lips
and move him unwillingly to partake
of their restless oblivion, washing his hopes
down with every fresh boast that his sober foes make.
If this sounds like a misanthropic exercise in schadenfreude, that's because it is. I wonder if it has much value besides personal satisfaction; Bush has caused a lot of unnecessary grief and death in this world, in my opinion, and it's only fair that some of it should come back to bite him, but perhaps this isn't my finest hour as a humanitarian either.
See you on the comments page, and then on Jan 1, 2006!
There are some developments on the poetry front to report; first of all my book has been reviewed in a couple of places, and here are the urls: http://www.newsreview.com/issues/Sacto/2005-11-24/mixbook.asp.
and http://whimfetishandblogorrhea.blogspot.com/ (scroll all the way down).
I'm also hosting the second go-round of my radio show for writers on KSSU, the Sac State student-run radio station. Don't bother looking for it on your dial (it's 1580 AM), the signal is very weak. Your best bet is to get live streaming audio from the website at kssu.com. Clear as a bell. The show's times are a bit funky, due to limited scheduling options, but here they are:
Wednesday Nov. 30, 9:00 to 10:00am
Thursday Dec. 1, 10:00-11:00am
Wednesday Dec. 7 6:00-7:00pm
Tuesday Dec. 13. 9:00 to 10:00am
Anyway, the poem I'm posting for today is something inspired by a National Inquirer cover story about George W. Bush's (alleged) renewed drinking binges, apparently caused by the fact that suddenly everyone hates him, including his own father and many old cronies. I was having trouble coming up with a title for this one, so help on that score would be especially appreciated. I had originally thought of "The Madness of King George" or "Bush's Madness" or "Bush's Relapse" but I settled on "The Relapse" as the least over the top.
The Relapse
By night the President stumbles disheveled
and muttering down the White House halls,
strung out on the dishonest habit
of governing those his work appals.
The conscientious self-destruction
he once pursued now follows him,
like journalists investigating
a charge of corruption and falsehood. A grim
belligerence sends in its chemical weapons—
new habits die hard and old ones are reborn.
Unguarded, he tastes a treacherous foreign
vintage: mortality. Those he won't mourn
come back with a scornful toast on their lips
and move him unwillingly to partake
of their restless oblivion, washing his hopes
down with every fresh boast that his sober foes make.
If this sounds like a misanthropic exercise in schadenfreude, that's because it is. I wonder if it has much value besides personal satisfaction; Bush has caused a lot of unnecessary grief and death in this world, in my opinion, and it's only fair that some of it should come back to bite him, but perhaps this isn't my finest hour as a humanitarian either.
See you on the comments page, and then on Jan 1, 2006!
posted by Brad at 10:11 AM
1 comments
