Followers

Thursday, April 30, 2020

What is the scent of water?



What is the scent of water?

Your words start him thinking Zen-like
but
he still has to face the world,
partition it to be safe; lock
his gate,
keep a distance, maintain his space;
a zone for others to circumnavigate,
watch their step; watch his step;
assure he is no culprit of neglect.
He'd better eat a big steak,
flex his muscles, fly straight,
sonic boom, and reverberate,
create more space...or
lay claim to someone else's
place too spent to retaliate.
Always keeping, always holding
never letting go and counting, storing.

A good fence makes the man.
We measure him with rod and ruler
in the yard of his self-made prison
never by the opened gate
He has provided
for the wind, or sun, or dust
that invades it.

What is the scent of water
or the sound of rain on water
or the feeling they have
when they run together?
He looks forward to the day
when he can be less than what he is;
on that day he will come forth
from himself and discover
more than who he isn’t.
And the Lord said, “Thou shalt be born again.”

He is best when he knows who he isn't
and better when he knows where he is.
Give it all back, go back to where
he came; follow his own tracks back,
tracks long abandoned, unmapped, random.

He was always happiest
with an empty plate or mended bowl.
Always happiest with simple choices;
God or Man or his own literature;
barefoot girls in summer dresses.

What is the scent of water
or the sound of rain on water
or the feeling they have
when they run together?

Does water come from its own source?
Is Man from God or are They from both?




Wednesday, April 29, 2020

Dr. Julius Margolis

Moses Julius Margolis 1904-1980

(Photo courtesy of Joe Green)


There should be a statue of this man in the center of the city of Coatesville, PA.

Tuesday, April 28, 2020

You are a River to your People


You are a River to your People

To a friend for his imprisoned son and all the Black Brothers who wade the draining tide.

You are a river to your people;
counted amongst the names
of those dead or alive,
incarcerated;
stirring the alluvial carnage
of a tentacled past;
Hung like Christmas ham
as homage for our harvest;
Up the Route 66 corridor
you fled and lept
cross snake soiled banks
where cottonmouths
spurned your holy step
and drowned your dream in whimpers.

From Canaanite hills
to Babylon dreams,
they deferred your Sargassian truth.
We know their dream;
their excess of love.
The rod and the staff give comfort.
The red rain
stings a porous page
of diluted history.
The spiked word
vaults ‘cross your indigenous waves
where sunlit whispers
baptized under a whipping moon.
A half-eaten peach
rides a naked current
and will not return.

The belly of Eve is bloated.
Her diasporian sin
brings us to the river
and invites us get in,
and we, like Eve
weep salty tears
on brackish waters
and wade the draining tide.

Rage, curse, and bless us now;
beat hell out on the binding bar.
You are a river to your people;
paid tribute for our sin,
defiled by the cuffs
that hold you back
they have replaced
the stripes that bore your back
rage, curse, and bless us now;
Mother Jones’ cookie jar is hidden
and our belated, sugar-coated
Mr. Goodbar consciousness
oddly, sadly… bedridden.

January 2009

Monday, April 27, 2020

song to the open hearth



song to the open hearth
(Sung to the tune of Matty Groves, Fairport Convention)
Chorus
D (hammer 3rd str, 2nd fret)
Oh tis true, ‘tis true from Coatesville town I be
A
As true as true believe
Am C
You’ll never see me bended knee
Em A D
As long as I can breath

I am the town of iron and steel
And where the water flows
Until they closed our livelihood
And then our river froze.

Chorus

Come work with me my brother bold
Come feel the open hearth
As she pours forth her melting gold
From her hot tempered mouth.

Chorus

There we broke the mason’s brick
And swallowed caked hard lime
So hot our boots as if set aflame
The ladle turned us out in time.

Chorus

Oh go back, go back in, you hardy boys
for you’ll never be a man
Until a drip of sparking steel
Tickles your sweaty back.

Chorus

Sunday, April 26, 2020

Golden Threads



Golden Threads

On this earth, there are golden threads;
Threads that bind, and mend, or complement.
One such thread has to be,
the golden thread that links horse to man.
In praise of man, the horse gave its back
for lending it something the horse did lack.
An untamed horse running on the plain
knows to go and knows his location 
but has no notion of himself alone in motion.
The saddle, bit, stirrup, and bridle;
these be the brokers between horse and rider.
Yes, there are other golden threads;
from child to mother, from hound to master,
from fallen man to God the father,
to the calloused hand and ball-peen hammer.
But still I have to wonder yet:
Is there any one fitted any better
than a willing horse and gracious rider?

Saturday, April 25, 2020

The Edge and the Sheared

The Edge and the Sheared


I sit at my desk
a cigarette does burn
I listen to the radio
speaking words that I know
and the music beginning
is heard by the chord
saying, "Life's soft mission 
was forgotten."

The candles are lighting
thin shadows on walls;
the clothes of my fancy
lay on the floor.
It is all vanity
for the heart to ignore;
ignoring the fact
of the matter.

The ashtray is full
of burned wishes and hopes;
seeking the current
searching the source.
For a word in a memory
or a face on the pond
is cleansed by a spring
e'er renewing.

The music mimics my
my inner-most mood
repeating the webs
of past offerings.
Of the joys and the sorrows
only meant to attest
for the will of one's
boldest striving.

I gaze at my words
both written and said
logos of swift
imagination
they turn and they spin
like flies to a light
attracted by their own
misconception.

And so it will end
this mood I am in
deserted by the muses
and singing a hymn.
This is life at its shortest,
the edge and the sheared,
wasting the existence
between them.

12/79

Friday, April 24, 2020

Rejection: the Red Badge of Resistance





Revised excerpt from the “Introduction” to Leftovers 


Rejection: the Red Badge of Resistance

For those of us with character (êthos), there is an event that recurs in our lives. It is what Nietzsche calls ones greatest weight (The Gay Science, Aphorism 341). For me, it is rejection. I was baptized with rejection when my mother cried that she wanted a girl when I was born. She told me she shouted to the doctor, “Put him back. Put him Back.” Dr. Gabbert slapped her across the face and slapped me across my ass and said, “Emma, you have a beautiful boy.”

Those of us with character can’t escape our recurring event. It emerges from our subconscious and plays with us in dreams. It is a battle between the self-subconscious and the community collective conscious. Which one wins determines our progress. Those with strong wills triumph; those weaker get hooked on drugs, shoplift, or die early when their bodies just surrender. No matter what we do, we cannot prevent the eternal recurrence of this event. My event is rejection and I embrace it. I know of another person who told me that their recurring event is people coming back to them and saying, “You know you were right.” It must be quite a burden to be always right. I have learned to love rejection like a horse learns to love the whip. Horses feel euphoric when they run; and when they are near exhaustion and feel their rider's whip they climax.

God's mistake. Born outside of nature after God's pit stop visit and his great escape. An anomaly. Quirky. The world would have preferred a muffled heartbeat at birth or a cut cord to bleed me out. A boy I was not meant to be. What an inconvenient shouldn't be. And if I would have been born of a different uncle, I would have been much more manly, much more army and navy, a three chord country ballad rather than Bernstein Gershwin symphony combined orchestral. Too complicated but just as White but still a second to the first born child; an after thought for my father's side.

I always thought there was something wrong with me. Something I said. Something I did. A slip of the tongue. Speaking out of turn. That's why my extended family, my blood, aunts and uncles, cousins, don't associate with me. I thought. That must be why they don't want me. My fault. But really deep down inside they only think they're better. It's really that simple. If they thought they had something to gain by associating with me then I wouldn't be able to get rid of them. They would be up my ass 24/7. But, let's not over-complicate as Marcus Aurelius would say. Things are what they are; and God bless you if you can change them. This goes to show that rejection might have many causes. Nonetheless, rejection still seems to find me like when your number is skipped over when you're waiting for lunch meat at the grocery store deli. You say to yourself, "Don't take it personal."

I have been plagued by rejection since birth. I wait for it. I know it’s on its way. It hides in the hedgerow with white eyes. It always surprises me when it finds me and I limp away like a wounded animal howling, cursing the earth and myself. It corners me and I resist. Perhaps, it comes in a letter, a phone call, an email, or in the first meeting with your new boss. “You weren't my first pick for this job. I just wanted to let you know.” It comes every time I write something. It's the self-inflicted wound when I ask someone to read something I've written or “I left a copy of my new book on the front porch for you,” and it's still there after a month. Oh, how I love it!

I love rejection even more than I loved my father's beatings. My father beat me and our dogs but I never saw him beat my mother or my sister. I found it curious watching my father beat our dogs because of the strange way he had to balance himself as he came down with his left arm on the dog. My father had a shorter right arm than left arm. He beat our dogs with wooden clothes hangers. As he came down with the wooden hanger in his left hand, his little right arm would raise up to his chest. The dogs would yelp after the first two or three blows and then curl up resigning themselves to the beating. How noble of the dog, I thought. As they were beaten their tongues would be out of their closed mouths just a tiny bit; the same way they looked when they were corny; the same way they looked when they rode your leg. Their eyes did not move. All of this acceptance of suffering for an equivalence of a meal. The dogs weren't suffering. It was what was required of them to eat. Both the dogs and I didn't feel rejected when we were beaten. We felt fully accepted by an other. The dogs took their beating for food and I took mine for love. The dog knew as long as he was beaten he would eat; I knew as long as I was beaten I had a home for they would never dare release me.

Maybe, rejection comes with a knock on the door in a special delivery or in a policeman’s question. Maybe it comes when a neighbor shouts, “Nobody likes you! Why don't you move!” You answer back, "That's why I'm here. You got it right. Thank you." I wouldn’t want to prevent it. It is the event that defines who I am. A rejection. One of the love-less rejected. As long as I am rejected, I am winning my battle against the world. I am a better Christian. If rejection is the world's only weapon, I could be a greater conqueror of men than Alexander and a greater builder of temples than Solomon.

Some say this recurring event is the consequence of our drive to procreate and continue the race, human race that is; that somehow we pass this event on in our chromosomes. I have a strand that cries out for rejection like a friend of mine has a strand to conquer women. My wife calls him a real pícaroSpanish for womanizing rogue. Some say it is the consequence of our need to create ourselves as metaphorical beings symbolized in the clothes we wear, the cars we drive, or the friends we make. For me there are places that draw me like a magnet; places where I know that if I go there, I will be rejected. This is why I say, it is not who we are that is important but where we are. 

I live in Coatesville, a place of rejection. When most were moving out, I was moving back. Others say it is a consequence of our desire to manipulate, control, and persuade through the power of our will. It could even be a place to guard against ourselves; to dull our strongest idiosyncrasies. I say it is a consequence of our desire for freedom and the more we have the more we are rejected because people are afraid of freedom. The better of us are less afraid. The greatest servants of mankind are those who liberate us from the fear of death. Those who are free of the fear of death are no longer hypothetical people; they are real people.

What joy to be free from responsibility and free from the bonds that tie us to things and other people; free from demands, duty, and the onus of choosing sides in the battle of good and evil. Free from the recurrence of the event. We can only be free of it if we embrace it and make it part of our existence like a pollutant in a river. We swim in the water but never open our eyes or our mouths for fear it sicken us.
We fear our freedom because it is a pursuit of nothingness. We slide into our armor reluctant warriors. We find our freedom when the event no longer haunts us; when it loses our scent and no longer stalks us or tracks our footprint; when it stops waiting for us to go with it even after we have told it over and over again to go away that we aren’t interested. We avoid it. Our metabolism slows and we experience erectile dysfunction. We take vitamins, eat dirt extracting the red ore from between our teeth. Deny it but it is there all the time parked in our driveway taking our space and reminding us that our windows are insecure. Our freedom. It sneaks inside like a draft in winter. It is the reason for living with death. It is the reason why we embrace ourselves at night in fear that in the morning we vaporize and awake.

Can a recurring event occur on a grander scale? Is there such a thing as eternal recurrence on a global scale? Nietzsche would say yes. Nietzsche claims the eternal recurrence of the small man, the mediocre man. In America there is the eternal recurrence of the racial man. First there was the rejection of the native American until he was destroyed. Then, we were permitted to praise him with cigar store indians; and then once he gained his freedom, the black man, and then he gained stature by making him into a concrete jockey with a lantern; and now in postmodern America, the White Man. In what image do we make him? 

Yes, America's eternal recurrence, America's haunting event, is the continual invention of the racial man. There is no place for White male progressives of the Boomer Generation in today's postmodern, identity based politique. Ask Chris Matthews. Not only in education but in all areas, Boomer White male progressives who have helped lay the foundation of contemporary progressivism through their years of unrewarded, unselfish, and ridiculed work in the areas of critical pedagogy, socialist economics, multiculturalism, and ethnocentrism are party crashers; uninvited, rejected. To even ask for an invitation displaces an other whose voice must be heard over theirs. To come to the party would mean that somebody's piece of cake will be smaller or somebody's folding chair will be taken. Today they need to be more careful about where they go because it no longer matters who they are. We don't need to hear his voice anymore. We reject it.

Rejection is the extraordinary man's red badge of resistance. If we aren't being rejected, we are being accepted. That's where the danger is...in acceptance. It lulls us into mediocrity. It catches us napping in the afternoon with no defense when awakened by home invaders.


Thursday, April 23, 2020

Jimmy Carter's Malaise Speech Revisited 1/31/2010

Jimmy Carter's Malaise Speech Revisited

President Jimmy Carter's televised speech on July 15, 1979,  has been one of the most maligned Presidential speeches in American history.  The speech will over time gain momentum in American history for its subtlety and relevance just as Lincoln's Gettysburg Address has.  Carter was no Lincoln and I do not mean to demean Carter.  Carter has been one of the most providential American presidents in history.  While most ex-presidents sharpen their teeth on world events, Carter has sought to influence world events through mediation.

Carter's speech was an honest assessment of the direction America was heading and provided remedies to forestall and reverse the impending American decline just as Lincoln's Gettysburg Address provided a remedy for the nation's suffering by reversing the animosities and setting the nation on a course of reconciliation and healing.  Carter's speech like Lincoln's was an appeal to each of us to take the moral high ground.  Carter's speech was essentially Christian in its attitude on materialism. “[F]or one's life does not consist in the abundance of things he possesses” (Luke 12:15). Carter asked us to exercise old-fashioned stewardship over our financial and natural resources just as Lincoln appealed to the propositions by which our nation was founded.   Like Lincoln's Gettysburg Address, Carter's speech called on us to have a new birth of freedom; a freedom from materialism and self-indulgence.  According to Carter:

[W]e are also beginning to close the door on our past... In a nation that was proud of hard work, strong families, close-knit communities, and our faith in God, too many of us now tend to worship self-indulgence and consumption. Human identity is no longer defined by what one does, but by what one owns. But we've discovered that owning things and consuming things does not satisfy our longing for meaning. We've learned that piling up material goods cannot fill the emptiness of lives which have no confidence or purpose.

Initially, the American people liked the message, and we were ready to rally around our President...at least for a couple of days. Television had shortened our attention spans but not quite as much as today's cell phones and iPods.  Once the special interest groups circled their wagons and Carter's political adversaries put their spin on the speech, the speech was turned into a kind of defamation of the American spirit.  As a nation, we were vulnerable to political diatribes.  We needed someone to uplift our spirits; to tell us it was okay to take that extra cookie from the cookie jar because we deserved it.  Vietnam, Watergate, and assassinations had taken their toll on our collective consciousness and we were in no mood to downsize our appetites.  We needed the cavalry to come to our rescue.  Instead, we got an actor in a cowboy's white hat who had read one chapter in Friedrich Hayek's Road to Serfdom with annotations by Mrs. Thatcher.

The Reagan Revolutionaries ran against Carter's message of austerity and sacrifice and told us that everything was fine as long as we waved the flag, chanted patriotic slogans, and bought on credit. With the help of the Ayatollah, the era of profligacy began. Carter was no competition for the great communicator Ronald Reagan who tapped into the yet unexploited aspect of the Boomer's Generation's culture of narcissism, greed. After all, Nixon had freed the children of the Boomer's from the draft.  There was no need to worry about their kids grades anymore so they could get a draft deferment for college.  There would be no interruption of service to the self. 

Tiring of their introspective soul searching for meaning, the boomers rediscovered what their parents, who were children of the Great Depression,  had always been skeptical of,  the wide open objective horizon of laissez-faire capitalism; the same capitalism that had forced them to eat bread and lard during the thirties. From kindergarten to the workforce, there was a beeline to prosperity. Teachers who were viewed as nation builders in Asia, were viewed as obstacles on the road to success for American children if they gave out a C, gave too much homework, or challenged students with rigorous lessons.  As test scores dropped along with student competence, Reagan proclaimed we could have it all and we could have it now. Education became even more suspect than before as Americans looked to college dropouts and basketball players like Bill Gates, Michael Jordan, Donald Trump, Magic Johnson, Larry Bird,  Sam Walton,  and Steve Jobs as icons of achievement. 

Reagan's message was that we could extol ourselves into greatness if we only believed.  It was our perceptions that were holding us back not the truth.  We could spend ourselves to the American Dream. Our rugged individualism along with Hayek's deregulated marketplace was enough to fulfill our manifest destiny to be a beacon to the world by exporting our culture and democratic values. We would dominate the world with our technological innovation, financial services, and voluntary professional armed forces that would police the world to guarantee our national security and the flow of oil at an affordable price. If Juan Valdez complained about earning a buck a day to guarantee our thirty-nine cent a pound bananas, we could always have our Ollie Norths do our dirty work.  What we needed was a good war; one at home and one abroad. Reagan fired the air traffic controller and invaded Granada to save the medical students whose grades weren't good enough to cut in American medical schools.  America was back in the saddle again.

I bought into Reagan's message donating to his Republican Presidential Task Force. I was actually a charter member. I received my certificate, medal, and flag. It took me twenty-years and a second mortgage from the debt I accrued to pay for them. Spending ourselves to the American Dream has led us to consume ourselves over the past thirty-years until we are now confronted with the present day American nightmare. Our national public debt is 14 trillion dollars. Our government deficit is about 1.5 trillion. The "fundamental threat to American democracy" that Carter spoke of in 1979, is our tendency "to worship self-indulgence and consumption." Our "identity" is no longer defined by what [we do], but by what [we own]. We can hear today social critics and free market economists proclaim the business model as the key to all our woes.  Hospitals, schools, museums, public libraries, and government agencies should heed the great entrepreneurial spirit, privatize when possible, and restate their missions to be more pragmatic and tacitly useful to the masses.  The bottom-line is that if institutions do not contribute to the economy than their purpose is suspect and not worth our attention if they can't pay for themselves.

The real danger to our freedoms is not government debt but our personal debt. It is a greater threat than the bomb, Reagan’s Evil Empire, or Al Qaeda. Personal debt enslaves us to tyrannical masters.  We become accustomed to the whip and are grateful for it.  Debt makes us vulnerable to the rolling tides of time and the foibles of those who would strive for power.  Debt destroys our free will.  Debt keeps us silent when we should speak out.  Debt makes us dependent on the world's approval and not on the approval of our conscience.  Debt makes us appeasers as we seek to avoid conflict.  Debt undermines our courage and sets us on a path of timidity.  Debt causes us to feel guilty about leisure that is essential to recreate and create.  Debt causes us to focus on what we might lose rather than what we have to gain.  Debt has caused us to become a people of the status quo.  The proliferation of easy credit in the United States was the final nail in the coffin for our people.  More than anything else, it has immobilized us.  The great irony is that those who spoke most vehemently about overspending were the ones who encouraged the American people to spend more and who accrued the greatest government debt.  Conspiracy theorists need not look any further for the hidden hand that has put us in our present predicament.  We as a nation were manipulated into insolvency.

The Reaganites and their predecessors, including Clintonian Democrats, did not mention that part of their contract with America was the mass exporting of jobs and our manufacturing base overseas.  Those of us not fortunate enough by birth, pedigree, or disposition to have the entrepreneurial spirit; those of us who did not have the killer instinct for competition; those in our society who had not read Suzuki's book on Zen, Castaneda's Journey to Ixtlan,  or who had not been provided a jump start by a lump sum from their parents who as senior citizens had accumulated more wealth than any generation in the history of the world, were left behind or placed on the margins of society. There would be no trickle down of wealth to them.  Well, they could always assemble TV sets.  The problem today is that not one single TV is manufactured in the United States.  This increased the bifurcation between the great American middle class and the rich but it also, even more ominously, increased the divide between the poor and the middle class.  We can see today how the middle class is becoming radicalized by the Tea-Party Movement.

I am beginning to hear rumblings amongst the American people; slight tremors of truth on the social Richter Scale. Although, telling the truth is not politically advantageous. In fact, we ourselves have muted our own voices so much by political correctness that we can't even speak the language of solutions. I have my doubts that we as a people will ever be able to return to the time when we could honestly appraise our situation and act to remedy it without first tearing it all down and starting over.  The rugged individualist has been replaced by the pulp individualist who is fossilized in adolescence and like most adolescents view themselves as the hub from which the whole world revolves.  Senior citizens no longer want to invest in the future of their grandchildren.  Blacks hold Whites in a perpetual state of guilt that impedes constructive discussion on the real problems in minority communities.  Hispanics seeking a larger piece of the economic, political, and cultural pie accuse politicians of xenophobia and racism when solutions for the issues of immigration are proffered.  Whites form tea-parties and militias to protect what they thought belonged to them but never did as the great American middle class shrinks and they blame everybody but themselves for their inertia.  We have not yet been Balkanized territorially but we have long passed the point of balkanization culturally.

God help us if the streets of Cairo forebode a future in America. I bet many Americans believe that those Egyptians are not filled with the strength of political will that we Americans have. Many of us who are isolated in a geopolitical box believe that our political system is too strong to collapse.  Our nation is a young nation and still filled with great promise.  That may be true but first we have to make it to adulthood.  That is what Carter's speech thirty-one years ago asked us to do.  Carter asked us as a people to become adults again.  He reminded us to look to the past in order to undue our future; to remember the courage of those involved in the early Civil Rights Movement  who understood that freedom had to be earned and not bought; to remember those sacrifices of the GI Generation that helped save the world from fascism; and to remember the resiliency of those who had lived through the Great Depression. 

Carter's speech has not yet been recognized as one of the most important speeches in our history.  It will eventually after historians look back on our decline. Our decline is inevitable.  No amount of staged patriotism is going to change the direction we have set for ourselves. They will write about how the most powerful and prosperous nation in the history of the world destroyed itself in such a short period of time.  Our history from 1945 until today is filled with mistakes and misjudgments.  Historians will blame the American people for our lack of vigilance, our naiveté, and our greed.  I hope they will note that we were brainwashed.  We were set against one another.  We were divided and we were conquered not by the barbarians at our frontiers but by the very people we trusted to lead us.

Perhaps the second American Civil War has been occurring ever since 1980.  There are no Antietam's or Chancellorsville's to gauge this civil war.  Until recently, it has been a clandestine civil war against the American people. We do not tally the dead, the wounded, or those missing in action in military terms but we can tally them in cultural, spiritual, and economic terms.  It has been a civil war between those who had faith in our country and those who sought to milk it for their own self-interest.  It was treason by misinformation, subversion, and sabotage.  Who were the traitors: corporations, banks, Wall Street and their accomplices; the media, lobbyists, and politicians who viewed their positions of power as jobs and not as a duty to serve.  Their guiding motivation was profit.  Service was for do-gooders, enablers, or for those who had no choice but to put on a uniform to get a step up on the socio-economic ladder.

The collapse of the housing market and the bailout of banks was the Gettysburg of the clandestine civil war against the American people.  We as a nation will never recover from it.  The material machinery of our recovery has long been stripped from us and outsourced, exported, or relocated; but what is even more important, the moral fabric of America has been torn asunder.  We are a people engulfed in the flames of our centrisms. There will be more battles to fight but the tide has turned and as the economies of China and India improve our Appomattox draws closer and closer.  The situation brings to mind another speech by a great President, Abraham Lincoln, as he surveyed the battlefield of Gettysburg.  We can look back and mourn the fallen but we cannot sanctify what has already been sanctified.  Historians will write the epitaph of our nation in such terms; how a noble and generous people lined up row by row to be nothing more than cannon fodder for the rich and powerful.  The Egyptians are having their new birth of freedom.  Lincoln asks us, "When will we?"

We cannot dedicate—we cannot consecrate—we cannot hallow—this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom— and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

1/31/2010




Carter's Speech (excerpted)
 (Delivered  on July 15, 1979)

[A]fter listening to the American people I have been reminded again that all the legislation in the world can't fix what's wrong with America. So, I want to speak to you first tonight about a subject even more serious than energy or inflation. I want to talk to you right now about a fundamental threat to American democracy.

The threat is nearly invisible in ordinary ways. It is a crisis of confidence. It is a crisis that strikes at the very heart and soul and spirit of our national will. We can see this crisis in the growing doubt about the meaning of our own lives and in the loss of a unity of purpose for our nation.

The erosion of our confidence in the future is threatening to destroy the social and the political fabric of America.

The confidence that we have always had as a people is not simply some romantic dream or a proverb in a dusty book that we read just on the Fourth of July.

It is the idea which founded our nation and has guided our development as a people. Confidence in the future has supported everything else -- public institutions and private enterprise, our own families, and the very Constitution of the United States. Confidence has defined our course and has served as a link between generations. We've always believed in something called progress. We've always had a faith that the days of our children would be better than our own.

Our people are losing that faith, not only in government itself but in the ability as citizens to serve as the ultimate rulers and shapers of our democracy. As a people we know our past and we are proud of it. Our progress has been part of the living history of America, even the world. We always believed that we were part of a great movement of humanity itself called democracy, involved in the search for freedom, and that belief has always strengthened us in our purpose. But just as we are losing our confidence in the future, we are also beginning to close the door on our past.

In a nation that was proud of hard work, strong families, close-knit communities, and our faith in God, too many of us now tend to worship self-indulgence and consumption. Human identity is no longer defined by what one does, but by what one owns. But we've discovered that owning things and consuming things does not satisfy our longing for meaning. We've learned that piling up material goods cannot fill the emptiness of lives which have no confidence or purpose.

As you know, there is a growing disrespect for government and for churches and for schools, the news media, and other institutions. This is not a message of happiness or reassurance, but it is the truth and it is a warning.

What you see too often in Washington and elsewhere around the country is a system of government that seems incapable of action. You see a Congress twisted and pulled in every direction by hundreds of well-financed and powerful special interests. You see every extreme position defended to the last vote, almost to the last breath by one unyielding group or another. You often see a balanced and a fair approach that demands sacrifice, a little sacrifice from everyone, abandoned like an orphan without support and without friends.

Often you see paralysis and stagnation and drift. You don't like it, and neither do I. What can we do?

First of all, we must face the truth, and then we can change our course. We simply must have faith in each other, faith in our ability to govern ourselves, and faith in the future of this nation. Restoring that faith and that confidence to America is now the most important task we face. It is a true challenge of this generation of Americans.

One of the visitors to Camp David last week put it this way: "We've got to stop crying and start sweating, stop talking and start walking, stop cursing and start praying. The strength we need will not come from the White House, but from every house in America."

We are at a turning point in our history. There are two paths to choose. One is a path I've warned about tonight, the path that leads to fragmentation and self-interest. Down that road lies a mistaken idea of freedom, the right to grasp for ourselves some advantage over others. That path would be one of constant conflict between narrow interests ending in chaos and immobility. It is a certain route to failure.

All the traditions of our past, all the lessons of our heritage, all the promises of our future point to another path, the path of common purpose and the restoration of American values. That path leads to true freedom for our nation and ourselves.





Wednesday, April 22, 2020

Moon on 8th Avenue




March 18, 2011

day of hallucinations



a day of hallucinations

electrical first of soft metal
a click and pause of shutter speed
a flicker page a twitter book
a funeral procession at highway speed
a tailpipe ooze of methamphetamine
tilling tongs that rake your brain
a visitor's light on chrome and silk
a monkey's paw right to return from life
lazarus saw it on a welder's torch
spent his day on a jerusalem porch
check your nielson ratings for sport
silver teeth on a lying tiger
bites his peppermints and swallows
radio waves from a crooked antenna
broadcast news from a white banana
the dentist drill bite your lip
glass glass a pebble from the underpass
a lightning streak of fractured space
an empty bottle of saliva gas
pins the scissor hinge on wall street models
a reflecting dress of neon fodder
and water
a simmering pot on a left bank stove
santa clause in drag queen clothes
a nickel and dime parking meter
a fish hook and a wriggling leader
a knife and fork a spoon a joke
muddy boots an anthem chokes
horns and rings and paperclips
the sultry fluorescence of an office pit
a towering episode of a clumsy morning
a mix of traffic an exit warning
snow shovel partners and bags of salt
melt beneath slippers on a cold sidewalk
and ice
a kaleidoscope wand from the master’s umbrella
aluminum shingles haunt the mice in the cellar
galvanized nails and shotgun pellets
a random killing on the rooftop flashing
bicycle spokes and a key-chain jingle
seven is the number that acts like silver



it’s 1969 i’m at a concert i hear the music but i don’t know why i’m there then i’m in the car head out the window someone’s mirror slaps my face and i’m in the hospital a nurse comes in and i want to eat her dress because it reminds me of icing on a cake she says i’m going to give you something to rest lay back enjoy your high then she goes under the sheets and gives me head i see the sheets moving i lift them up and the nurse has a gopher head i call her rajah gopher then there’s two filipino nurses speaking in tagalog with a shaving mug and a razor they lather up my privates and start to shave me and try to tell them they got the wrong person but they don’t speak english another nurse comes in and tells them they got the wrong person while i listen to eric bourdon sing spill the wine as hot flames of fire roar up my back the nurse smiles and says my pubic looks cute half shaven it’s a presbyterian hospital so i know they believe in predestination



Tuesday, April 21, 2020

Nanny




Nanny


Our Nanny kept the family together, didn't she?
Cousins, we once played hide and seek
behind Pop-pop's grapevines
careful of the poison ivy, snakes,
and the in-ground hornet nests.
We made Nanny shout and holler
when we left the outhouse door ajar.
We used to tease each other
when we pooped
making monster noises through the wood.

Cousins, we played doctor on the porch
and discovered our innocence and parts
while Nanny was too busy in the kitchen
to worry about four-year old whispers.
Then... you walked in to ask for water
before the next make-believe
hospital procedure
and our clothespin doctor's tools
fell out of your panties to the floor.

Nanny chased me with a wet washcloth
up the hill and around the house.
It stung like bees when she found her mark.
You sat at the kitchen table glowing.
I bent over and took my scalding
Nanny swinging
the cat and nine tails singing.
I glanced up and you were giggling
milk dripping
from Nanny's homemade
sugar cookies.

Funny, you became a nurse
and I wonder if you carry
clothespins in your purse.

We pass each other in the Acme
like strangers forgetting
we once napped together
next to the heat duct in the floor
wrapped in the afghan Nanny knitted.
It was she who made sure Pop-pop
put more coal in the furnace
and cleaned the trap
to keep us warm and children smelling.
It was she who stirred the pot
of boiling milk and rice
all afternoon so I could have a bowl
before I played my next football game
and later when I would ask her
after Pop-pop had passed
and the game was over
she would give me ten dollars
so I could drink
Boone's Farm Apple Wine
with my friends and get sick.
It was she I held in my arms
weightless she was
struggling for breath
holding on.
It was she I whispered,
"Let it go. Let it go. Jesus loves you. Yes, I know."

She was so thin
in and out of comatose.
And looking at me with confidence
because I was the first of hers
to have a college intelligence,
she let go and we...

We have long forgotten our innocence,
too tongue-tied now to reminisce;
hide our days of the great unspoken
that once we lived a trailer niche
and make-believe ourselves once again
measured among the nouvoriche,
coiled and ranked since Nanny's passing.