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Showing posts with label January 8 2011. Show all posts
Showing posts with label January 8 2011. Show all posts

Saturday, January 08, 2011

Sociogeopolitical Art Project [Today's News Poem, January 8 2011]

Sociogeopolitical Art Project [Today's News Poem, January 8 2011]

Start with some pencil, a blank sheet will do.
Draw just the measurement, draw it to scale.
Fill it with people, some animal parks.
Color a smile on the sun, on the cattle.
Don't like a city? Then crush it to rubble.
Sketch on your picture an 'x' for the blindness
Of death, draw a skull to denote what's been wasted
By bored rulers drawn to make scribbles in margins
On blank pages—forcing out options with image.

"Southern Sudan, on the eve of a historic referendum for independence from the north, faces a future with a fundamental difficulty: Finding southern Sudanese trained to run a fledgling country.
When Sudan's last civil war ended in 2005, the leaders of the southern rebellion against the north rewarded many of its soldiers with jobs in the south's ruling party. Now the south's finance ministry, on the verge of overseeing a budget for a new nation, has a surfeit of rebels-turned-bureaucrats who can barely read."
—SARAH CHILDRESS, The Wall Street Journal, JANUARY 8, 2011
http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052748704739504576067790998188326.html

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Insist An If [Combatwords Poem, January 7, 2011]

Insist An If [Combatwords Poem, January 7, 2011]
From: http://combatwords.blogspot.com/2011/01/combatwords-january-7-2011-splitting.html

She doesn't know, she said she doesn't know
And so an extra pint, a shot of gin—
And pinball through the jukebox techno pop.

Pick a fight—what makes that eightball special?
Grab it, throw it where the music (music?)
Emanates and break the sound of fuckers.

She says she doesn't know, so disagree
And jump the curb—she's fists: his hair and keys.
At last she's driving somewhere definite.

"God does not exist you crazy bitch,
Why withhold your judgment, nothing's there.
Say it might be so, I dare you, say it,"

Might be so. She married mighty soul,
A frantic drunk she shouldn't love—
Mostly doesn't anymore—
But drives him back to sheets;
Rolls the extra bed
And lays her head
Under moon
And asks
'If.'

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