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Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Found Poem on Twitter:
Twitter is America's rectal thermometer.
it's just a kiss away.....kiss away....kiss away....
ahh and of course Haiti in June...
I thought everyone was asleep.
sun gone. moon gone..stars gone.
Rome wasn't built in a day.
ahh and of course Haiti in June...
shoot me the email
shoot me the email
Something is wrong with you.
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it's just a kiss away.....kiss away....kiss away....
ahh and of course Haiti in June...
I thought everyone was asleep.
sun gone. moon gone..stars gone.
Rome wasn't built in a day.
ahh and of course Haiti in June...
shoot me the email
shoot me the email
Something is wrong with you.
Subscribe in a reader
Last Contact [News Poem March 30, 2010]
Last Contact [News Poem March 30, 2010]
“But over the last 20 years, private companies and academic researchers have claimed patents on more than 4,300 human genes — about 20 percent of all genes in the human body.”
--Jim Dwyer, The New York Times, March 30, 2010
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/03/31/nyregion/31about.html
The animals of planet three
Were brutes, and yet an entity
Comprised of them, but more like us—
A being with whom we could discuss
The means of trade with primitives—
Emerged from parts that squirm and live.
The natives called them government;
Or business—what they really meant
To say was sentience exists
In groups for them—the rest resist
But lack the power, so they find
Themselves all trapped in hidden binds.
We bargained for the darker ones
To work in mines near far off suns;
And ate the meat of lighter skins:
Delicious! It was clean and thin.
Our chefs prepared them as fillets.
We took their genes and flew away.
Those entities are better off
Without their poor at feeding troughs.
Besides, they treat their beasts the same:
And never had a moral claim—
For dignity's for higher life
And unused parts are tasty. Rife.
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“But over the last 20 years, private companies and academic researchers have claimed patents on more than 4,300 human genes — about 20 percent of all genes in the human body.”
--Jim Dwyer, The New York Times, March 30, 2010
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/03/31/nyregion/31about.html
The animals of planet three
Were brutes, and yet an entity
Comprised of them, but more like us—
A being with whom we could discuss
The means of trade with primitives—
Emerged from parts that squirm and live.
The natives called them government;
Or business—what they really meant
To say was sentience exists
In groups for them—the rest resist
But lack the power, so they find
Themselves all trapped in hidden binds.
We bargained for the darker ones
To work in mines near far off suns;
And ate the meat of lighter skins:
Delicious! It was clean and thin.
Our chefs prepared them as fillets.
We took their genes and flew away.
Those entities are better off
Without their poor at feeding troughs.
Besides, they treat their beasts the same:
And never had a moral claim—
For dignity's for higher life
And unused parts are tasty. Rife.
Subscribe in a reader
Announcements, etc
1) Didn't start on the News Poem until 30 min ago. Promising start, but I needed to take a short break. Will be up in an hour or so.
2) End of Feb Edition of Toylit turned into a crushing amount of work and I'm just going to roll it into the end of March edition. Think of it as your Q1, 2010 report.
3) For those of you who are familiar w/ the antinews aesthetic, consider submitting your antinews to Toylit. The composition should target a timely topic, through the prism of antinews; and of course, it must satisfy my editorial standards.
4) Welcome to all the new readers. I didn't expect to get so many readers from SE Asia, India or Pakistan. If you have topics you'd like me to cover, let me know and I'll see what I can do. Some of the news poems are so America-centric, I'm surprised at your persistent interest. So thanks.
5) I can also tell that some of you are promoting Toylit. I appreciate it. Now to pay you off--with verse.
Subscribe in a reader
2) End of Feb Edition of Toylit turned into a crushing amount of work and I'm just going to roll it into the end of March edition. Think of it as your Q1, 2010 report.
3) For those of you who are familiar w/ the antinews aesthetic, consider submitting your antinews to Toylit. The composition should target a timely topic, through the prism of antinews; and of course, it must satisfy my editorial standards.
4) Welcome to all the new readers. I didn't expect to get so many readers from SE Asia, India or Pakistan. If you have topics you'd like me to cover, let me know and I'll see what I can do. Some of the news poems are so America-centric, I'm surprised at your persistent interest. So thanks.
5) I can also tell that some of you are promoting Toylit. I appreciate it. Now to pay you off--with verse.
Subscribe in a reader
Monday, March 29, 2010
No More Beslans [Today's News Poem, March 29, 2010]
No More Beslans [Today's News Poem, March 29, 2010]
“Though the Moscow bombings appear related to the conflict in the North Caucasus and New York's greatest threat is seen as coming from al Qaeda, police enacted the same security detail that they roll out after any attack elsewhere in the world.”
http://www.reuters.com/article/idUSTRE62S5J220100329
Russia's being bombed once more,
So prepare yourselves for war.
Beslan lost its kids—beware:
Arm your children, if you care.
Creepy kids and towelheads
Train right now to shoot them dead.
Armories inside the schools
Make for better play than pools.
Buy that armored blouse and dress—
Proms without the bullet stress
Make for sweet eighteens... in fact
When the school's attacked, react
Forcefully to threat; unless
Bullies first incite the mess.
Then you just ignore their games—
Bullets always find their names.
Subscribe in a reader
“Though the Moscow bombings appear related to the conflict in the North Caucasus and New York's greatest threat is seen as coming from al Qaeda, police enacted the same security detail that they roll out after any attack elsewhere in the world.”
http://www.reuters.com/article/idUSTRE62S5J220100329
Russia's being bombed once more,
So prepare yourselves for war.
Beslan lost its kids—beware:
Arm your children, if you care.
Creepy kids and towelheads
Train right now to shoot them dead.
Armories inside the schools
Make for better play than pools.
Buy that armored blouse and dress—
Proms without the bullet stress
Make for sweet eighteens... in fact
When the school's attacked, react
Forcefully to threat; unless
Bullies first incite the mess.
Then you just ignore their games—
Bullets always find their names.
Subscribe in a reader
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Return From the Mainland [Today's News Poem March 28, 2010]
Return From the Mainland [Today's News Poem March 28, 2010]
“LRA combatants specifically searched out areas where people might gather — such as markets, churches, and water points — and repeatedly asked those they encountered about the location of schools, indicating that one of their objectives was to abduct children. Those who were abducted, including many children aged 10 to 15 years old, were tied up with ropes or metal wire at the waist, often in human chains of five to 15 people.”
--Arthur Bright, Christian Science Monitor, March 28, 2010
http://www.csmonitor.com/World/terrorism-security/2010/0328/Human-Rights-Watch-says-Lord-s-Resistance-Army-rampage-killed-321-in-the-Congo
“One girl refused to have sex with her assigned rebel and she became an example to the others. As the other children watched, she was beaten to death. To magnify the horror of the “execution,” the other children were forced to beat the child’s dying body... Frequently, some of the abducted children were forced to participate in unspeakably barbaric rituals involving the bodies of slain combatants. These cannot be described here.”
–MIKE HINKLE The Edmond Sun
http://www.edmondsun.com/opinion/x58345176/Terror-remains-for-Uganda-s-child-soldiers
“And every time I neared a nervous lapse,
I thought of you; regained my urge to fight.
The boy was one of many native traps:
A spell they cast to gull the few who right
The awfulness of murder—it's obscene.
I testify his death was fair and clean.”
“The zombie myth we tell is not a lie.
Our lovely children: fear their vicious ways—
With wickedness a golden age did die.
This platform on the sea is home to praise
Of clans and nurture. Faith is never lost
If innocence survives—and damn the cost!”
“The books before the fall refer to crimes
In distant lands. The citadels of wealth
Ignored the spreading plague until the times
Infected them, by means of cunning stealth:
And every murder they allowed, a prayer
That God abandon us: why should it care?
The boy was only twelve, like some of you.
He had a gun, but also had a tome:
A bible book, I saw he'd read it through.
I buried him at sea—he sleeps in foam.
I needed self-redemption, some small act
To show I know that any death detracts
From every living being that loves to grow:
I buried him for me and not for show.”
Subscribe in a reader
“LRA combatants specifically searched out areas where people might gather — such as markets, churches, and water points — and repeatedly asked those they encountered about the location of schools, indicating that one of their objectives was to abduct children. Those who were abducted, including many children aged 10 to 15 years old, were tied up with ropes or metal wire at the waist, often in human chains of five to 15 people.”
--Arthur Bright, Christian Science Monitor, March 28, 2010
http://www.csmonitor.com/World/terrorism-security/2010/0328/Human-Rights-Watch-says-Lord-s-Resistance-Army-rampage-killed-321-in-the-Congo
“One girl refused to have sex with her assigned rebel and she became an example to the others. As the other children watched, she was beaten to death. To magnify the horror of the “execution,” the other children were forced to beat the child’s dying body... Frequently, some of the abducted children were forced to participate in unspeakably barbaric rituals involving the bodies of slain combatants. These cannot be described here.”
–MIKE HINKLE The Edmond Sun
http://www.edmondsun.com/opinion/x58345176/Terror-remains-for-Uganda-s-child-soldiers
“And every time I neared a nervous lapse,
I thought of you; regained my urge to fight.
The boy was one of many native traps:
A spell they cast to gull the few who right
The awfulness of murder—it's obscene.
I testify his death was fair and clean.”
“The zombie myth we tell is not a lie.
Our lovely children: fear their vicious ways—
With wickedness a golden age did die.
This platform on the sea is home to praise
Of clans and nurture. Faith is never lost
If innocence survives—and damn the cost!”
“The books before the fall refer to crimes
In distant lands. The citadels of wealth
Ignored the spreading plague until the times
Infected them, by means of cunning stealth:
And every murder they allowed, a prayer
That God abandon us: why should it care?
The boy was only twelve, like some of you.
He had a gun, but also had a tome:
A bible book, I saw he'd read it through.
I buried him at sea—he sleeps in foam.
I needed self-redemption, some small act
To show I know that any death detracts
From every living being that loves to grow:
I buried him for me and not for show.”
Subscribe in a reader
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Guest Contributor: "Poker Face" By Rutherford Toady (aka rtoady)
Poker Face
March 27, 2010 By R. Toady
http://carrioncall.blogspot.com/
First thing you should know is we don't refer to ourselves as demons any longer. PR prefers that we use the term "alternative angels." Anyways, it takes nineteen of us alt-angels to control this particular subject. I'm an eye movement expert; though in these cases the eyes don't actually see anything, proper eye movement is essential when it comes to preserving the illusion that the suit is moving of its own volition. Things have changed a lot in the possession business since the old days when one would just take a lift to the surface and just leap into the body in question and, you know, go to town. I miss those days sometimes. In the digital age, possession is a strictly wireless operation, performed via remote control by a team of specialists. We all work at programming our particular bodily function- legs, head, heart, digestive system- and the commands go through a central processor which checks them for accuracy before beaming them via wireless signals to the subject, or suit. It's kind of like a marionette with nineteen different puppeteers pulling the strings. If this sounds complicated, you're right, it is, but remember we've been at this for thousands of years.
So as you know, recently I've been working with this subject we call Lady Gaga. Hey, don't blame me for the name; that's all Marketing's doing. It's not bad work, though I'd prefer a more established vocalist such as Streisand or Liza. I'm not so much into this dance music crap, but it's a job, and it could be a hell of a lot worse. Take for instance my former associate Horkheimer. Both of us started work on the Gaga woman at the same time, right before her second single came out. Poker Face, that's right. Gaga -or Steffi, as we called her- was what you call a cooperative subject, or coop, rather than a hostile takeover. Seems like more and more musicians are seeking out our services these days; I don't mean to brag but business is booming. Those guys and gals down in PR know what they're doing. The internet helps, of course.
Anyways, Horkheimer was a hand man. You probably don't think about how important the hands are when it comes to singing. Horkheimer had been controlling the hand gestures of female performers for a couple thousand years; his big breakthrough was a little chippy name of Salome, maybe you've heard of her. More recently, he's worked with such luminaries as Marlene Dietrich and Jane Avril. So we felt fortunate to have him on board. It's funny what years in the industry can do to a man though. Horkheimer had a wicked sense of humor that had a real sense of bitterness behind it. Plus he was a little bit full of himself, and I think he felt that by working with a young, relatively unknown singer, that he was slumming it. "Look," I'd tell him, "We're starting with nothing with this one. This is our chance to build whatever we want, to shape her into our image!"
He wasn't having any of it though. "She doesn't have any class," he'd kvetch. "That's something we can't fake. It's either there or it ain't, and with this Gaga bitch, it ain't." Now like I said, I prefer the more traditional vocalist myself, but I wasn't going to kick. I always believe in trying to make the best of things. Besides, my last couple of gigs had been the pits; working with strictly nowhere acts, boy bands mostly. The stories I could tell. But I digress.
So anyways this one time, Gaga's got this big concert to put on at some stadium in England, and we've got everything all programmed and ready to go, and she gets out there, and the first thing she does, before Goldsmith can get her to sing a single note, she raises her left hand, extends her left index finger, and shoves it as far as it will go up her left nostril and starts digging for gold, so to speak. Well, the crowd went nuts, screaming and booing and throwing half-empty cans of Boddingtons. It was a real clusterfuck, believe you me. We had to detain the entire audience, wipe their memories of the evening clean. What's that? Well, to you it may seem like an extreme reaction for such a minor incident. And I know what you're thinking: in the grand scheme of things, what harm can a little nose picking do? It's different in this business though, where careers can hinge on a single wardrobe malfunction, a single inappropriate gesture. It's all about keeping the client happy.
I haven't seen Horkheimer since; no one in our circle has, though rumor has it he's been stuck supervising bowel maintenance for some young act name of Justin Bieber or something. Poor son of a bitch. Me, I play it safe. No crossing or rolling of the eyes, no inappropriate winking. Keep your eyes on the prize, I always say, and keep your nose clean. I plan on being at this job for as long as I can, at least until the inevitable overdose.
We're giving her about five years.
--
Copyright Rutherford Toady, All Rights Reserved
http://carrioncall.blogspot.com/
Subscribe in a reader
March 27, 2010 By R. Toady
http://carrioncall.blogspot.com/
First thing you should know is we don't refer to ourselves as demons any longer. PR prefers that we use the term "alternative angels." Anyways, it takes nineteen of us alt-angels to control this particular subject. I'm an eye movement expert; though in these cases the eyes don't actually see anything, proper eye movement is essential when it comes to preserving the illusion that the suit is moving of its own volition. Things have changed a lot in the possession business since the old days when one would just take a lift to the surface and just leap into the body in question and, you know, go to town. I miss those days sometimes. In the digital age, possession is a strictly wireless operation, performed via remote control by a team of specialists. We all work at programming our particular bodily function- legs, head, heart, digestive system- and the commands go through a central processor which checks them for accuracy before beaming them via wireless signals to the subject, or suit. It's kind of like a marionette with nineteen different puppeteers pulling the strings. If this sounds complicated, you're right, it is, but remember we've been at this for thousands of years.
So as you know, recently I've been working with this subject we call Lady Gaga. Hey, don't blame me for the name; that's all Marketing's doing. It's not bad work, though I'd prefer a more established vocalist such as Streisand or Liza. I'm not so much into this dance music crap, but it's a job, and it could be a hell of a lot worse. Take for instance my former associate Horkheimer. Both of us started work on the Gaga woman at the same time, right before her second single came out. Poker Face, that's right. Gaga -or Steffi, as we called her- was what you call a cooperative subject, or coop, rather than a hostile takeover. Seems like more and more musicians are seeking out our services these days; I don't mean to brag but business is booming. Those guys and gals down in PR know what they're doing. The internet helps, of course.
Anyways, Horkheimer was a hand man. You probably don't think about how important the hands are when it comes to singing. Horkheimer had been controlling the hand gestures of female performers for a couple thousand years; his big breakthrough was a little chippy name of Salome, maybe you've heard of her. More recently, he's worked with such luminaries as Marlene Dietrich and Jane Avril. So we felt fortunate to have him on board. It's funny what years in the industry can do to a man though. Horkheimer had a wicked sense of humor that had a real sense of bitterness behind it. Plus he was a little bit full of himself, and I think he felt that by working with a young, relatively unknown singer, that he was slumming it. "Look," I'd tell him, "We're starting with nothing with this one. This is our chance to build whatever we want, to shape her into our image!"
He wasn't having any of it though. "She doesn't have any class," he'd kvetch. "That's something we can't fake. It's either there or it ain't, and with this Gaga bitch, it ain't." Now like I said, I prefer the more traditional vocalist myself, but I wasn't going to kick. I always believe in trying to make the best of things. Besides, my last couple of gigs had been the pits; working with strictly nowhere acts, boy bands mostly. The stories I could tell. But I digress.
So anyways this one time, Gaga's got this big concert to put on at some stadium in England, and we've got everything all programmed and ready to go, and she gets out there, and the first thing she does, before Goldsmith can get her to sing a single note, she raises her left hand, extends her left index finger, and shoves it as far as it will go up her left nostril and starts digging for gold, so to speak. Well, the crowd went nuts, screaming and booing and throwing half-empty cans of Boddingtons. It was a real clusterfuck, believe you me. We had to detain the entire audience, wipe their memories of the evening clean. What's that? Well, to you it may seem like an extreme reaction for such a minor incident. And I know what you're thinking: in the grand scheme of things, what harm can a little nose picking do? It's different in this business though, where careers can hinge on a single wardrobe malfunction, a single inappropriate gesture. It's all about keeping the client happy.
I haven't seen Horkheimer since; no one in our circle has, though rumor has it he's been stuck supervising bowel maintenance for some young act name of Justin Bieber or something. Poor son of a bitch. Me, I play it safe. No crossing or rolling of the eyes, no inappropriate winking. Keep your eyes on the prize, I always say, and keep your nose clean. I plan on being at this job for as long as I can, at least until the inevitable overdose.
We're giving her about five years.
--
Copyright Rutherford Toady, All Rights Reserved
http://carrioncall.blogspot.com/
Subscribe in a reader
The Hippies Have it Made: The Squares Obtain New Trades [Today's News Poem, March 27, 2010]
The Hippies Have it Made: The Squares Obtain New Trades [Today's News Poem, March 27, 2010]
“Tens of thousands of red-shirted protesters threatened to force soldiers from the historic heart of Thailand's capital Saturday, raising tensions in what so far has been a nonviolent bid to bring down the government.”
--KINAN SUCHAOVANICH (AP) – 9 hours ago at 12:35pm PST
http://www.google.com/hostednews/ap/article/ALeqM5g3j-vAVG1fg3kEfnogTiH8_4EXvwD9EMTJPG0
“Tea Party groups like FreedomWorks recognize that they are benefiting from the labor of many people who have been hit hard economically. But its chairman, the former House majority leader Dick Armey, argued that their ranks will remain strong — and connected — even as members find work.”
--Kate Zernike, The New York Times, March 27, 2010
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/03/28/us/politics/28teaparty.html?hp
““It’s no worse than alcohol,” said Ms. Kutilek, 30, an administrator at Metropolitan Community Church of San Francisco. “Drunk people get really belligerent. I don’t know anybody who gets belligerent on marijuana. They just get chill.””
--Jesse McKinley, The New York Times, March 25, 2010
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/03/26/us/26pot.html
The madness mobs provoke is only matched
With blandness slobs invoke. The game is hatched
Inside a game of brinks. They tote their greed:
Deride a claim that thinks. Or vote for weed:
A lifestyle (pair with work). Or dare the cops—
In strife-bile, share death's lurk—they cleaned with mops
A pool of protest blood. The teabag punks—
The ghouls of foe-blessed crud—are fascist skunks,
With shirts of browner shades of protest hue.
They'll hurt: they're clowns with blades. Our blood is due.
Subscribe in a reader
“Tens of thousands of red-shirted protesters threatened to force soldiers from the historic heart of Thailand's capital Saturday, raising tensions in what so far has been a nonviolent bid to bring down the government.”
--KINAN SUCHAOVANICH (AP) – 9 hours ago at 12:35pm PST
http://www.google.com/hostednews/ap/article/ALeqM5g3j-vAVG1fg3kEfnogTiH8_4EXvwD9EMTJPG0
“Tea Party groups like FreedomWorks recognize that they are benefiting from the labor of many people who have been hit hard economically. But its chairman, the former House majority leader Dick Armey, argued that their ranks will remain strong — and connected — even as members find work.”
--Kate Zernike, The New York Times, March 27, 2010
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/03/28/us/politics/28teaparty.html?hp
““It’s no worse than alcohol,” said Ms. Kutilek, 30, an administrator at Metropolitan Community Church of San Francisco. “Drunk people get really belligerent. I don’t know anybody who gets belligerent on marijuana. They just get chill.””
--Jesse McKinley, The New York Times, March 25, 2010
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/03/26/us/26pot.html
The madness mobs provoke is only matched
With blandness slobs invoke. The game is hatched
Inside a game of brinks. They tote their greed:
Deride a claim that thinks. Or vote for weed:
A lifestyle (pair with work). Or dare the cops—
In strife-bile, share death's lurk—they cleaned with mops
A pool of protest blood. The teabag punks—
The ghouls of foe-blessed crud—are fascist skunks,
With shirts of browner shades of protest hue.
They'll hurt: they're clowns with blades. Our blood is due.
Subscribe in a reader
Friday, March 26, 2010
Garden of Eaten [Both Parts, Today's News Poem, March 26, 2010]
Garden of Eaten [Today's News Poem, March 26, 2010]
“Obama administration officials on Friday ramped up their attempts to help struggling homeowners, announcing major changes to the government's much-criticized $75-billion program to modify mortgages to avoid foreclosures.”
--By Jim Puzzanghera, Los Angeles Times, March 26, 2010 | 10:08 a.m.
http://www.latimes.com/business/la-fi-obama-mortgages27-2010mar27,0,6966492.story
I)
In a room of one's own
Close to all agitprop,
With an equity loan
All the assets will pop.
Up in value they soared
As the experts declared
That the value was stored
In diplomas they bared.
On computers all day—
All those hours inside—
I was shut in at play
While the wilderness died.
And I loved to fear death,
And enjoyed the cruel mist;
Does she still pass through breath?
Are her savages missed?
I'm already entombed
In a casing of spires:
While economies boom
My dear nature expires.
II)
Who stumbles up the snowy mountain, drunk?
Who starts in afternoon?
Who leaves his flashlight on the bedroom trunk
While seeking nature's boon?
And sweating on a cliff of hardened ice
Accepting death by chill;
Who praises deadly peaks and winter's slice,
When storms deplete his will?
In darkness we're conceived—in dark, I slouched.
And blind, I reached the room
Upon a peak of blizzard--shelter-couched--
Inside a wooden womb.
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“Obama administration officials on Friday ramped up their attempts to help struggling homeowners, announcing major changes to the government's much-criticized $75-billion program to modify mortgages to avoid foreclosures.”
--By Jim Puzzanghera, Los Angeles Times, March 26, 2010 | 10:08 a.m.
http://www.latimes.com/business/la-fi-obama-mortgages27-2010mar27,0,6966492.story
I)
In a room of one's own
Close to all agitprop,
With an equity loan
All the assets will pop.
Up in value they soared
As the experts declared
That the value was stored
In diplomas they bared.
On computers all day—
All those hours inside—
I was shut in at play
While the wilderness died.
And I loved to fear death,
And enjoyed the cruel mist;
Does she still pass through breath?
Are her savages missed?
I'm already entombed
In a casing of spires:
While economies boom
My dear nature expires.
II)
Who stumbles up the snowy mountain, drunk?
Who starts in afternoon?
Who leaves his flashlight on the bedroom trunk
While seeking nature's boon?
And sweating on a cliff of hardened ice
Accepting death by chill;
Who praises deadly peaks and winter's slice,
When storms deplete his will?
In darkness we're conceived—in dark, I slouched.
And blind, I reached the room
Upon a peak of blizzard--shelter-couched--
Inside a wooden womb.
Subscribe in a reader
Garden of Eaten [Part 2, News Poem March 26, 2010]
Garden of Eaten [Part 2, March 26, 2010]
Who stumbles up the snowy mountain, drunk?
Who starts in afternoon?
Who leaves his flashlight on the bedroom trunk
While seeking nature's boon?
And sweating on a cliff of hardened ice
Accepting death by chill;
Who praises deadly peaks and chills that slice,
When storms deplete his will?
In darkness we're conceived—in dark, I slouched.
And blind I reached the room
Upon a peak of blizzard, shelter-couched—
Inside a wooden womb.
Subscribe in a reader
Who stumbles up the snowy mountain, drunk?
Who starts in afternoon?
Who leaves his flashlight on the bedroom trunk
While seeking nature's boon?
And sweating on a cliff of hardened ice
Accepting death by chill;
Who praises deadly peaks and chills that slice,
When storms deplete his will?
In darkness we're conceived—in dark, I slouched.
And blind I reached the room
Upon a peak of blizzard, shelter-couched—
Inside a wooden womb.
Subscribe in a reader
Garden of Eaten [Today's News Poem, March 26, 2010]
Garden of Eaten [Today's News Poem, March 26, 2010]
“Obama administration officials on Friday ramped up their attempts to help struggling homeowners, announcing major changes to the government's much-criticized $75-billion program to modify mortgages to avoid foreclosures.”
--By Jim Puzzanghera, Los Angeles Times, March 26, 2010 | 10:08 a.m.
http://www.latimes.com/business/la-fi-obama-mortgages27-2010mar27,0,6966492.story
In a room of one's own
Close to all agitprop,
With an equity loan
All the assets will pop.
Up in value they soared
As the experts declared
That the value was stored
In diplomas they bared.
On computers all day—
All those hours inside—
I was shut in at play
While the wilderness died.
And I loved to fear death,
And enjoyed the cruel mist;
Does she still pass through breath?
Are her savages missed?
I'm already entombed
In a casing of spires:
While economies boom
My dear nature expires.
Subscribe in a reader
“Obama administration officials on Friday ramped up their attempts to help struggling homeowners, announcing major changes to the government's much-criticized $75-billion program to modify mortgages to avoid foreclosures.”
--By Jim Puzzanghera, Los Angeles Times, March 26, 2010 | 10:08 a.m.
http://www.latimes.com/business/la-fi-obama-mortgages27-2010mar27,0,6966492.story
In a room of one's own
Close to all agitprop,
With an equity loan
All the assets will pop.
Up in value they soared
As the experts declared
That the value was stored
In diplomas they bared.
On computers all day—
All those hours inside—
I was shut in at play
While the wilderness died.
And I loved to fear death,
And enjoyed the cruel mist;
Does she still pass through breath?
Are her savages missed?
I'm already entombed
In a casing of spires:
While economies boom
My dear nature expires.
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Thursday, March 25, 2010
Flashback Flash Forward [News Poem March 25 2010]
Flashback Flash Forward [News Poem March 25 2010]
http://toylit.blogspot.com/2010/03/flashback-flash-forward-news-poem-march.html
“In the flash mob on Saturday, groups of teenagers were chanting “black boys” and “burn the city,” bystanders said.”
--Ian Urbina, The New York Times, March 24, 2010
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/03/25/us/25mobs.html?hp
“1. Sprint poised to launch first Mobile WiMAX handset… 2. … but rivals hit back with a raft of LTE deals 4. More spectrum, less regulation 5. Mobile healthcare the key market opportunity...”
-John Levett, Juniper Research, Thu, 25 Mar 2010 18:33:56 GMT
http://www.earthtimes.org/articles/show/top-five-hot-topics-at-ctia-wireless-2010,1221809.shtml
“Black boys burn the city.”
Smartphones film the riots.
News reprints the ditty:
Headlines call for quiet.
'Bums demand a handout,'
Brownshirts say with rifles.
Teabag goons expand doubt:
Killing foes for trifles.
Bandwidth! Give me rapid
Rates of transfer: faster
Forms of ever vapid,
Self-induced disaster.
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http://toylit.blogspot.com/2010/03/flashback-flash-forward-news-poem-march.html
“In the flash mob on Saturday, groups of teenagers were chanting “black boys” and “burn the city,” bystanders said.”
--Ian Urbina, The New York Times, March 24, 2010
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/03/25/us/25mobs.html?hp
“1. Sprint poised to launch first Mobile WiMAX handset… 2. … but rivals hit back with a raft of LTE deals 4. More spectrum, less regulation 5. Mobile healthcare the key market opportunity...”
-John Levett, Juniper Research, Thu, 25 Mar 2010 18:33:56 GMT
http://www.earthtimes.org/articles/show/top-five-hot-topics-at-ctia-wireless-2010,1221809.shtml
“Black boys burn the city.”
Smartphones film the riots.
News reprints the ditty:
Headlines call for quiet.
'Bums demand a handout,'
Brownshirts say with rifles.
Teabag goons expand doubt:
Killing foes for trifles.
Bandwidth! Give me rapid
Rates of transfer: faster
Forms of ever vapid,
Self-induced disaster.
Subscribe in a reader
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Pass the Buck [Today's News Poem, March 24, 2010]
Pass the Buck [Today's News Poem, March 24, 2010]
“Bank of America Corp. said it would offer more borrowers reductions in their mortgage-loan balances in the latest twist on efforts to avert foreclosures.”
--James R. Hagerty, Wall Street Journal, MARCH 24, 2010, 4:45 P.M. ET
http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052748703312504575141763259183050.html?mod=rss_Today%27s_Most_Popular
If only I could slip away,
If only greed led one astray,
I wouldn't feel the need to hide
From evils no good man abides.
An age of war could plant the guilt
On individuals who spilt
Their foes and made survivors slaves.
Yet now, a murder's fractions shave
Accountability: a hedge
Against the blame, to drive a wedge
Between the loot and self-esteem,
So soccer moms can drive their teams
To victory, without a pang—
Despite her side: the winning gang.
Attached to everything we gain,
Is suffering—another's pain
Is passed to us, along with bucks
We pass again. The cycle sucks
The blame for every single deed:
We cash the check of theft's proceeds
And blame the banks, or plutocrats—
Republicans or Democrats—
Instead of blaming our small role
In tragedy, to sate our goals.
Statistics chart the data map:
The graphs are types of people-traps.
A lattice of professionals
Combined in one processional
Are blameless one, but guilty all:
And likewise too, the working thrall.
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“Bank of America Corp. said it would offer more borrowers reductions in their mortgage-loan balances in the latest twist on efforts to avert foreclosures.”
--James R. Hagerty, Wall Street Journal, MARCH 24, 2010, 4:45 P.M. ET
http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052748703312504575141763259183050.html?mod=rss_Today%27s_Most_Popular
If only I could slip away,
If only greed led one astray,
I wouldn't feel the need to hide
From evils no good man abides.
An age of war could plant the guilt
On individuals who spilt
Their foes and made survivors slaves.
Yet now, a murder's fractions shave
Accountability: a hedge
Against the blame, to drive a wedge
Between the loot and self-esteem,
So soccer moms can drive their teams
To victory, without a pang—
Despite her side: the winning gang.
Attached to everything we gain,
Is suffering—another's pain
Is passed to us, along with bucks
We pass again. The cycle sucks
The blame for every single deed:
We cash the check of theft's proceeds
And blame the banks, or plutocrats—
Republicans or Democrats—
Instead of blaming our small role
In tragedy, to sate our goals.
Statistics chart the data map:
The graphs are types of people-traps.
A lattice of professionals
Combined in one processional
Are blameless one, but guilty all:
And likewise too, the working thrall.
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Steady progress on Today's News Poem. Read this in the meantime:
Crawl on over to the carrioncall and read Fall of the House of Zeppo. Hilarious and bizarre.
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Reverse Design [Today's News Poem March 23, 2010]
Reverse Design [Today's News Poem March 23, 2010]
“Gordon's work is part of a growing field of research that's just starting to mine the massive quantity of thoughts, feelings and experiences real people pour out daily on the Internet.”
--Shannon Proudfoot, Canwest News Service, March 23, 2010
http://www.montrealgazette.com/news/BLOG+CHRONICLES/2715796/story.html
“Branson's company Virgin Galactic announced Monday that the VSS Enterprise had successfully completed what it called a captive carry flight attached to a carrier plane.”
--CNN, March 23, 2010 10:57 a.m. EDT
http://www.cnn.com/2010/TECH/space/03/23/virgin.space.flight/?hpt=Sbin
'Coincidence exists as fate:
This moment's proof there's magic left.
I'd murder you, but it's too late
To rescue her and now bereft
I'd rather grieve: a human act
You scarce recall. You loved machines
Too well to care for basic tact.
And now, deprived of your marines...
I might, I might—you never know.
How does it feel to fear like this?
To live for once amongst a foe
Who stares across a like abyss
Into the meaty weak inside
Us both! Goddamn! To kill you off
Would make me last—until I died.
I want to hear that snotty scoff
You'd make when asked about the threat
Of competition bots propose.
Your brazen ways accrued a debt
You'll never pay—you see it flows:
You save the life of humankind
When saving one and likewise kill
Humanity—all intertwined—
When just one death's been charged to bill.
Insanity's the byproduct
Of toxic cultures. Likewise verse
Possessed the ultimate construct
Of meta-minds; not better, worse
Than what you did—you programmed chips,
I programmed souls. And yet you sought
To be like them—their skills eclipse
Your own and yet you never thought
The day would come when human parts
Would serve no need for cyberkind.
Instead of listening to art
You worshiped static, robot minds
That learned to ape our every way—
Despite their drives that don't forget:
That method caused you no dismay?
It's only now that you regret?
While both our kinds shall go extinct,
While you and I will shortly die;
By suicide I'll prove distinct
And clean in death. Fuck you and bye.'
He jumped before I scanned his brain.
His skull: it bounced from rock to rock.
A total loss. His body's stain
I took—to keep his genes in stock.
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“Gordon's work is part of a growing field of research that's just starting to mine the massive quantity of thoughts, feelings and experiences real people pour out daily on the Internet.”
--Shannon Proudfoot, Canwest News Service, March 23, 2010
http://www.montrealgazette.com/news/BLOG+CHRONICLES/2715796/story.html
“Branson's company Virgin Galactic announced Monday that the VSS Enterprise had successfully completed what it called a captive carry flight attached to a carrier plane.”
--CNN, March 23, 2010 10:57 a.m. EDT
http://www.cnn.com/2010/TECH/space/03/23/virgin.space.flight/?hpt=Sbin
'Coincidence exists as fate:
This moment's proof there's magic left.
I'd murder you, but it's too late
To rescue her and now bereft
I'd rather grieve: a human act
You scarce recall. You loved machines
Too well to care for basic tact.
And now, deprived of your marines...
I might, I might—you never know.
How does it feel to fear like this?
To live for once amongst a foe
Who stares across a like abyss
Into the meaty weak inside
Us both! Goddamn! To kill you off
Would make me last—until I died.
I want to hear that snotty scoff
You'd make when asked about the threat
Of competition bots propose.
Your brazen ways accrued a debt
You'll never pay—you see it flows:
You save the life of humankind
When saving one and likewise kill
Humanity—all intertwined—
When just one death's been charged to bill.
Insanity's the byproduct
Of toxic cultures. Likewise verse
Possessed the ultimate construct
Of meta-minds; not better, worse
Than what you did—you programmed chips,
I programmed souls. And yet you sought
To be like them—their skills eclipse
Your own and yet you never thought
The day would come when human parts
Would serve no need for cyberkind.
Instead of listening to art
You worshiped static, robot minds
That learned to ape our every way—
Despite their drives that don't forget:
That method caused you no dismay?
It's only now that you regret?
While both our kinds shall go extinct,
While you and I will shortly die;
By suicide I'll prove distinct
And clean in death. Fuck you and bye.'
He jumped before I scanned his brain.
His skull: it bounced from rock to rock.
A total loss. His body's stain
I took—to keep his genes in stock.
Subscribe in a reader
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
The Wrong Man [Today's News Poem March 23, 2010]
'Coincidence exists as fate:
This moment's proof there's magic left.
I'd murder you, but it's too late
To rescue her and now bereft
I'd rather grieve: a human act
You scarce recall. You loved machines
Too well to care for basic tact.
And now, deprived of your marines...
I might, I might—you never know.
How does it feel to fear like this?
To live for once amongst a foe
Who stares across a like abyss
Into the meaty weak inside
Us both! Goddamn! To kill you off
Would make me last—until I died.
I want to hear that snotty scoff
You'd make when asked about the threat
Of competition bots propose.
Your brazen ways accrued a debt
You'll never pay—you see it flows:
You save the life of humankind
When saving one and likewise kill
Humanity—all intertwined—
When just one death's been charged to bill.
Insanity's the byproduct
Of toxic cultures. Likewise verse
Possessed the ultimate construct
Of meta-minds; not better, worse
Than what you did—you programmed chips,
I programmed minds. And yet you sought
To be like them—their skills eclipse
Your own and yet you never thought
The day would come when human parts
Would serve no need for cyberkind.
Instead of listening to art
You worshiped static, robot minds
That learned to ape our every way—
Despite their drives that don't forget:
That method caused you no dismay?
It's only now that you regret?
While both our kinds shall go extinct,
While you and I will shortly die;
By suicide I'll prove distinct
And clean in death. Fuck you and bye.'
He jumped before I scanned his brain.
His skull it bounced from rock to rock.
A total loss. His body's stain
I took—to keep his genes in stock
Subscribe in a reader
This moment's proof there's magic left.
I'd murder you, but it's too late
To rescue her and now bereft
I'd rather grieve: a human act
You scarce recall. You loved machines
Too well to care for basic tact.
And now, deprived of your marines...
I might, I might—you never know.
How does it feel to fear like this?
To live for once amongst a foe
Who stares across a like abyss
Into the meaty weak inside
Us both! Goddamn! To kill you off
Would make me last—until I died.
I want to hear that snotty scoff
You'd make when asked about the threat
Of competition bots propose.
Your brazen ways accrued a debt
You'll never pay—you see it flows:
You save the life of humankind
When saving one and likewise kill
Humanity—all intertwined—
When just one death's been charged to bill.
Insanity's the byproduct
Of toxic cultures. Likewise verse
Possessed the ultimate construct
Of meta-minds; not better, worse
Than what you did—you programmed chips,
I programmed minds. And yet you sought
To be like them—their skills eclipse
Your own and yet you never thought
The day would come when human parts
Would serve no need for cyberkind.
Instead of listening to art
You worshiped static, robot minds
That learned to ape our every way—
Despite their drives that don't forget:
That method caused you no dismay?
It's only now that you regret?
While both our kinds shall go extinct,
While you and I will shortly die;
By suicide I'll prove distinct
And clean in death. Fuck you and bye.'
He jumped before I scanned his brain.
His skull it bounced from rock to rock.
A total loss. His body's stain
I took—to keep his genes in stock
Subscribe in a reader
Hey China! I found this in the memory hole:
http://www.cnd.org/June4th/massacre.html
I like your tanks:
Dan Rather had to interrupt Pee-Wee's Playhouse to show me your cool T-72s (those are T-72s, right?) flattening real people. Cowboy Curtis can't top that!
I have a deal: since I'm a safe distance away from the mobile execution buses, maybe you wouldn't mind it if I posted some pictures of the Tiananmen Square Massacre on here. I also would like to tell you about Falun-Gong and how you can shed ten to eighty years off your life expectancy by practicing it on the mainland.
Alas, you people are in big trouble insofar as your currency is backed by rapidly depreciating dollars. Remember 1998? I guess you can't remember something that was censored, but I do. Your economy has all the symptoms those other economies had back then... right now. Guess what? If you ignore the party bosses and just try to live your life, the shit they do in Beijing is going to thwart whatever you're trying to do right now... in about 6-18 months. The real problem of course is that the time to have fixed your structural economic problems was probably way back in 1989, or maybe 1998 at latest. Now you're up about two trillion in dollar assets that you can't sell. Thanks. I really enjoy the low inflation.
So party bosses may have censored images of tanks massacring students, for 'sake of the state,' but I assure you, you'll be seeing many tanks in the near future.
Anyhow, I guess my point was simply: I love your culture and its contributions to civilization, but your government is going to be the death of you and me too if you don't do something soon.
Also, I just hate censorship as a rule and I know some of you sneak over here to read all the news that's shit, in print.
Subscribe in a reader
I like your tanks:
Dan Rather had to interrupt Pee-Wee's Playhouse to show me your cool T-72s (those are T-72s, right?) flattening real people. Cowboy Curtis can't top that!
I have a deal: since I'm a safe distance away from the mobile execution buses, maybe you wouldn't mind it if I posted some pictures of the Tiananmen Square Massacre on here. I also would like to tell you about Falun-Gong and how you can shed ten to eighty years off your life expectancy by practicing it on the mainland.
Alas, you people are in big trouble insofar as your currency is backed by rapidly depreciating dollars. Remember 1998? I guess you can't remember something that was censored, but I do. Your economy has all the symptoms those other economies had back then... right now. Guess what? If you ignore the party bosses and just try to live your life, the shit they do in Beijing is going to thwart whatever you're trying to do right now... in about 6-18 months. The real problem of course is that the time to have fixed your structural economic problems was probably way back in 1989, or maybe 1998 at latest. Now you're up about two trillion in dollar assets that you can't sell. Thanks. I really enjoy the low inflation.
So party bosses may have censored images of tanks massacring students, for 'sake of the state,' but I assure you, you'll be seeing many tanks in the near future.
Anyhow, I guess my point was simply: I love your culture and its contributions to civilization, but your government is going to be the death of you and me too if you don't do something soon.
Also, I just hate censorship as a rule and I know some of you sneak over here to read all the news that's shit, in print.
Subscribe in a reader
Monday, March 22, 2010
A Book of Jokes [Today's News Poem March 22, 2010]
A Book of Jokes [Today's News Poem March 22, 2010]
“By relying on Hong Kong, Google is trying to find a way to fight censorship laws while still keeping a presence in mainland China. The approach may not work for long because the government will probably block the site”
-Brian Womack, Bloomberg, March 22, 2010, 7:39 PM EDT
http://www.businessweek.com/news/2010-03-22/google-stops-censoring-results-making-block-by-china-likely.html
“In a statement, the ministers condemned Tehran's jamming of satellite broadcasting and Internet censorship and called on authorities to "put an end to this electronic interference immediately."”
http://www.rferl.org/content/EU_Calls_On_Tehran_to_End_Iranian_State_Censorship/1990324.html
“The Internet, argues Cass Sunstein, has had a polarizing effect on democracies. Although it has the capacity to bring people together, too often the associations formed online comprise self-selecting groups with little diversity of opinion,”
http://harvardmagazine.com/2009/03/the-internet-foe-democracy
There was a time when history would make me laugh:
A book of jokes—of murder, madness, bigotry—
A game they played with living pieces, on behalf
Of bishops, knights and kings. With space telemetry;
And internet, the Papal Bulls against the sun
Were innocent excursions—never mind the death
Of witches, slaves and infidels: the match was won.
L. Wittgenstein asked, 'what's a game?' It's played with breath
For stakes when played for keeps. I say a game is jest
And nothing else—at least for those who win its stakes.
The losers may not crow aloud, but life's a test
Of funny bones. Besides, in death the dreamer wakes
And learns to laugh it off. She'll smile at tragic fates
Like mine: a punchline, ignorant of what awaits.
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“By relying on Hong Kong, Google is trying to find a way to fight censorship laws while still keeping a presence in mainland China. The approach may not work for long because the government will probably block the site”
-Brian Womack, Bloomberg, March 22, 2010, 7:39 PM EDT
http://www.businessweek.com/news/2010-03-22/google-stops-censoring-results-making-block-by-china-likely.html
“In a statement, the ministers condemned Tehran's jamming of satellite broadcasting and Internet censorship and called on authorities to "put an end to this electronic interference immediately."”
http://www.rferl.org/content/EU_Calls_On_Tehran_to_End_Iranian_State_Censorship/1990324.html
“The Internet, argues Cass Sunstein, has had a polarizing effect on democracies. Although it has the capacity to bring people together, too often the associations formed online comprise self-selecting groups with little diversity of opinion,”
http://harvardmagazine.com/2009/03/the-internet-foe-democracy
There was a time when history would make me laugh:
A book of jokes—of murder, madness, bigotry—
A game they played with living pieces, on behalf
Of bishops, knights and kings. With space telemetry;
And internet, the Papal Bulls against the sun
Were innocent excursions—never mind the death
Of witches, slaves and infidels: the match was won.
L. Wittgenstein asked, 'what's a game?' It's played with breath
For stakes when played for keeps. I say a game is jest
And nothing else—at least for those who win its stakes.
The losers may not crow aloud, but life's a test
Of funny bones. Besides, in death the dreamer wakes
And learns to laugh it off. She'll smile at tragic fates
Like mine: a punchline, ignorant of what awaits.
Subscribe in a reader
Stop poisoning the readership
I know it's hard to give up an ambition you didn't really make any sacrifices for--but please consider that every time you write a bad poem and throw a hissy-fit when the reader doesn't like it, you are DISCOURAGING them from reading verse. Bad prose writers are constantly mocked to their faces in ways bad poets are rarely mocked. Why? Bad poets freak out. They say 'you don't understand poetry.' Many of my readers e-mail me to say "well, I don't like poetry in general, but I like _your_ poetry," and I respond, "if you like language, then you're poetry's natural constituency."
Bad poets compensate for their terrible attempts at poesis by blaming the reader for the poet's failings. If you put your poetry out there, you expose it to criticism. Offering verse is offering a transaction: 'in exchange for reading this poem, I promise you'll get something from it.' Most poets though have no interest in the reader. They want the reader to come to them, rather than the other way around. It's vile, isn't it? The hypocrisy of that position? So if you found Toylit because I made what you might consider to be an 'unkind' remark regarding your poetry, consider that I am doing so for the sake of serious poets everywhere. Most supposed poets are really lifestyle tourists, who want to expropriate the identity of 'poet' without actually doing anything to earn it.
This is the difference between a lifestyle tourist and an actual poet: the poet's verse is merely the artifact of the performance art that is the poet's life. The lifestyle tourist goes and paints a smiley face on his penis and goes to Burning Man. The real poet mutilates his or her mind to maximize poesis. If you are going to trivialize my vocation then I am certainly going to mock your sad efforts at writing verse.
Why be one of a hundred million wannabe poets, when you could master tie dye, crochet, or really any other craft that has less competition and less at stake? You supposed 'language' poets are the worst too (not you Billy Collins): you study the means of communication, but communicate nothing of value. A poet with nothing to say is like a brand without a product.
Subscribe in a reader
Bad poets compensate for their terrible attempts at poesis by blaming the reader for the poet's failings. If you put your poetry out there, you expose it to criticism. Offering verse is offering a transaction: 'in exchange for reading this poem, I promise you'll get something from it.' Most poets though have no interest in the reader. They want the reader to come to them, rather than the other way around. It's vile, isn't it? The hypocrisy of that position? So if you found Toylit because I made what you might consider to be an 'unkind' remark regarding your poetry, consider that I am doing so for the sake of serious poets everywhere. Most supposed poets are really lifestyle tourists, who want to expropriate the identity of 'poet' without actually doing anything to earn it.
This is the difference between a lifestyle tourist and an actual poet: the poet's verse is merely the artifact of the performance art that is the poet's life. The lifestyle tourist goes and paints a smiley face on his penis and goes to Burning Man. The real poet mutilates his or her mind to maximize poesis. If you are going to trivialize my vocation then I am certainly going to mock your sad efforts at writing verse.
Why be one of a hundred million wannabe poets, when you could master tie dye, crochet, or really any other craft that has less competition and less at stake? You supposed 'language' poets are the worst too (not you Billy Collins): you study the means of communication, but communicate nothing of value. A poet with nothing to say is like a brand without a product.
Subscribe in a reader
Sunday, March 21, 2010
[Revised] Last Video Testimony of an SF OG
Last Video Testimony of an SF OG [Today's News Poem March 21, 2010]
“In 2008, Rich Hohl turned a troubled corner liquor store on San Francisco's Divisadero Street into an airy neighborhood cafe,”
http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2010/03/21/BUSL1CI4NA.DTL
“I've lived just up the corner from Divis for the past 16 years, and this is far from the type of corporate gentrification we've seen in other neighborhoods. I'm sure, if things were to reach a certain stage, we'd see Starbucks and Pottery Barn try to make inroads, but for now it's locals making our neighborhood better without all the outside opportunism.”
derakus 3/20/2010 9:52:42 PM
“Most Black natives have the same story: Their grandparents are from the South; they moved here and bought a house or two with the money they earned; much was lost or devastated by the crack epidemic.”
http://native-star.blogspot.com/
“How about this for a plan for sprucing up our nation’s crumbling housing projects: ship lazy black folks out to the subprime suburbs, privatize their apartment buildings and hand them over to real estate developers. That’s what T.A. Frank, a New America Foundation think tank shill, thinks Los Angeles needs to do with Jordan Downs, a notoriously dilapidated and crime-wracked project in Watts:”
http://exiledonline.com/how-to-solve-the-housing-glut-ship-poor-people-into-abandoned-suburbs-and-privatize-inner-city-projects/
“See, when street crime happens, that's bad. When crime happens against a whole racial-socioeconomic class, well, that's just 'progress.' I hate the gangsters too, but I totally get why Boots Riley wants to toss you all in a pit and machine-gun you to death.”
--khakjaan 3/21/2010 3:35:01 PM
“Question: What do $42,600 and $5 have in common?
Answer: they both represent the median net wealth of middle-aged American women. The only difference between the two numbers is race; while single white women from the ages of 36 to 49 have a median wealth of $42,600, single black women have a net wealth of just $5.”
-Charlotte Hill March 13, 2010 11:12 AM
http://uspoverty.change.org/blog/view/the_median_net_wealth_of_black_women_is_5
http://www.federalreserve.gov/pubs/oss/oss2/2007/scf2007home.html
The food obsessed may care about their meat;
The way it lived before it died to feed
A hungry maw: a privilege elites
Afford with theft to slake their goddamn greed.
I do not want to die my love—I fear
What may become of us. I can't protect
You—hell, I can't defend myself from gears
I scarcely understand, from architects
Of projects, crack cocaine...They want to chain
You up my love (my baby boy) to die
By sips of beer... by ways I can't explain.
They stole our neighborhood, I won't comply.
Instead, I'll stalk the corner I love best.
When yuppies come, I'll detonate my vest.
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“In 2008, Rich Hohl turned a troubled corner liquor store on San Francisco's Divisadero Street into an airy neighborhood cafe,”
http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2010/03/21/BUSL1CI4NA.DTL
“I've lived just up the corner from Divis for the past 16 years, and this is far from the type of corporate gentrification we've seen in other neighborhoods. I'm sure, if things were to reach a certain stage, we'd see Starbucks and Pottery Barn try to make inroads, but for now it's locals making our neighborhood better without all the outside opportunism.”
derakus 3/20/2010 9:52:42 PM
“Most Black natives have the same story: Their grandparents are from the South; they moved here and bought a house or two with the money they earned; much was lost or devastated by the crack epidemic.”
http://native-star.blogspot.com/
“How about this for a plan for sprucing up our nation’s crumbling housing projects: ship lazy black folks out to the subprime suburbs, privatize their apartment buildings and hand them over to real estate developers. That’s what T.A. Frank, a New America Foundation think tank shill, thinks Los Angeles needs to do with Jordan Downs, a notoriously dilapidated and crime-wracked project in Watts:”
http://exiledonline.com/how-to-solve-the-housing-glut-ship-poor-people-into-abandoned-suburbs-and-privatize-inner-city-projects/
“See, when street crime happens, that's bad. When crime happens against a whole racial-socioeconomic class, well, that's just 'progress.' I hate the gangsters too, but I totally get why Boots Riley wants to toss you all in a pit and machine-gun you to death.”
--khakjaan 3/21/2010 3:35:01 PM
“Question: What do $42,600 and $5 have in common?
Answer: they both represent the median net wealth of middle-aged American women. The only difference between the two numbers is race; while single white women from the ages of 36 to 49 have a median wealth of $42,600, single black women have a net wealth of just $5.”
-Charlotte Hill March 13, 2010 11:12 AM
http://uspoverty.change.org/blog/view/the_median_net_wealth_of_black_women_is_5
http://www.federalreserve.gov/pubs/oss/oss2/2007/scf2007home.html
The food obsessed may care about their meat;
The way it lived before it died to feed
A hungry maw: a privilege elites
Afford with theft to slake their goddamn greed.
I do not want to die my love—I fear
What may become of us. I can't protect
You—hell, I can't defend myself from gears
I scarcely understand, from architects
Of projects, crack cocaine...They want to chain
You up my love (my baby boy) to die
By sips of beer... by ways I can't explain.
They stole our neighborhood, I won't comply.
Instead, I'll stalk the corner I love best.
When yuppies come, I'll detonate my vest.
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