Welfare robs the recipients of dignity
Creates a culture of dependency
Wherein these siphons of tax payer money
Can be caste as larger versions of Pavlov’s dog.
With compassion, we must show the poor
The advantages of middle class virtue:
Finding a decent, well paying job,
Having a home in a good neighborhood.
No longer should we tolerate those
Cadillac driving, baby producing sponges
Who force, productive working people
To shoulder an onerous burden.
Enough of these brutes and lay-abouts!
Time for them to recognize the American dream,
To pay back the investments our proud real Americans
Have made to those who pose as victims.
Do these parasites not flood our hospitals
Making it problematic that Americans,
God fearing Americans, can receive
The care they surely deserve?
Towns and cities can no longer
Look past the slums welfare has created.
When will we state our righteous claims
Cleanse the system of these parasites?
With charity and prayer we will assist
Our fallen brothers and sisters.
Put them on a road to maturity and prosperity
So we may join hands and move forward
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Working on Welfare
“I had a dream,”
That I could help.
30 years later,
The dream I shared with Martin
Has morphed into something else.
I followed that dream out of the ghetto,
Through high school and college
Into the savagery of years spent
Seeking for a way to subdue shame.
Helping brothers and sisters escape
The inexorable, gravitational pull
Down, to where crippled egos
Fought waves of ennui and collapse.
They came demanding alms,
Needing to find sunshine.
We spoke of escape
From the labyrinthine maze.
We might meet on a bench
Adjoining a park engulfed
By giant buildings housing
Caves of the rich.
From the derelict dying bench we could watched
Chauffeured chariots.
Their size bespoke
A need to dominate and hid.
Now I know welfare is a cheap fix,
Waiting for someone really clever,
With an antidote for despair,
Indifference and poverty.
No longer do I sit at my desk,
Or visit the homes of victims.
Now I can surface,
Unburdened of anger and angst .
That I could help.
30 years later,
The dream I shared with Martin
Has morphed into something else.
I followed that dream out of the ghetto,
Through high school and college
Into the savagery of years spent
Seeking for a way to subdue shame.
Helping brothers and sisters escape
The inexorable, gravitational pull
Down, to where crippled egos
Fought waves of ennui and collapse.
They came demanding alms,
Needing to find sunshine.
We spoke of escape
From the labyrinthine maze.
We might meet on a bench
Adjoining a park engulfed
By giant buildings housing
Caves of the rich.
From the derelict dying bench we could watched
Chauffeured chariots.
Their size bespoke
A need to dominate and hid.
Now I know welfare is a cheap fix,
Waiting for someone really clever,
With an antidote for despair,
Indifference and poverty.
No longer do I sit at my desk,
Or visit the homes of victims.
Now I can surface,
Unburdened of anger and angst .
All Praise to Allah
Commissioned by Allah, I am the peacemaker.
I preach of redemption, vengeance & amp; God,
Love of tribe, and eradication of nonbelievers.
Do you fear me? If not, your thinking is clouded.
I do not make guns, only war,
Sadly the only road to peace.
Redemption comes through vengeance.
Many crimes cannot be forgiven.
Poets, builders and thinkers
Did we bring to Spain ---and will again
After we’ve cleansed the people.
Those who understand.
Israel, an abomination, must cease to exist.
Jew lovers must be obliterated.
America must be conquered.
These things I have sworn to Allah.
I believe, all praise to Allah,
I will know the martyrs deliverance,
The peace that transcends peace.
I preach of redemption, vengeance & amp; God,
Love of tribe, and eradication of nonbelievers.
Do you fear me? If not, your thinking is clouded.
I do not make guns, only war,
Sadly the only road to peace.
Redemption comes through vengeance.
Many crimes cannot be forgiven.
Poets, builders and thinkers
Did we bring to Spain ---and will again
After we’ve cleansed the people.
Those who understand.
Israel, an abomination, must cease to exist.
Jew lovers must be obliterated.
America must be conquered.
These things I have sworn to Allah.
I believe, all praise to Allah,
I will know the martyrs deliverance,
The peace that transcends peace.
Auction
Only 5 bidders on the courthouse steps,
It would be over quickly.
Lenders had lost patience with homeowners
Leaving bottom feeders to scavenge the remains.
Loans made in a surging market
Were no longer sound.
Potential buyers are hesitant,
Prices are falling.
People who became rich 2 years ago
Now faced foreclosures.
Speculators fall first,
Followed by more sympathetic souls.
Borrowing for retirement, fast cars
And college tuition,
Collided with the domino theory
Equaled disaster for many.
“I can’t buy your house
If I can’t sell mine,” they lament.
Gloom, spread by vultures,
Facilitates the accelerating decline
The auctioneer, disabused of dreams long ago,
Moves quickly, going through his list,
Without pause.
This is simply business.
Addresses viewed with detachment,
Numbers on a computer page,
No children dispossessed along with their parents.
No need to reflect on the victims
It would be over quickly.
Lenders had lost patience with homeowners
Leaving bottom feeders to scavenge the remains.
Loans made in a surging market
Were no longer sound.
Potential buyers are hesitant,
Prices are falling.
People who became rich 2 years ago
Now faced foreclosures.
Speculators fall first,
Followed by more sympathetic souls.
Borrowing for retirement, fast cars
And college tuition,
Collided with the domino theory
Equaled disaster for many.
“I can’t buy your house
If I can’t sell mine,” they lament.
Gloom, spread by vultures,
Facilitates the accelerating decline
The auctioneer, disabused of dreams long ago,
Moves quickly, going through his list,
Without pause.
This is simply business.
Addresses viewed with detachment,
Numbers on a computer page,
No children dispossessed along with their parents.
No need to reflect on the victims
Friday, July 20, 2007
How to Become Popular & Rich
How to Become Popular & Rich
Jeff,, 97 pounds of bone.
A high school sophomore,
A little guy with few friends.
Was there a cure?
3 players 6 hit,
That was the answer!
No, it did not change his weight,
But changed his status.
The piece of history,
Or love of the game,
That drove him to a most excellent idea
Is lost in time.
Monday morning home room,
Once quiet, especially at his desk,
Changed its polarity and popularity.
10 guys crowded his space.
“Betcha”, 3rd behind “fuck” & “shit”
As a high school pronouncement,
Particularly in matters of disagreement,
Resolved most issues.
Perhaps it was the word,
Or whimsically checking the odds,
Our hero took a few friendly bets.
3 players, 6 hits.
At 9 to 1 it looked pretty good to the bettors,
(8 to1 if the batters were on the same team)
Odds on winning? 20 to 1,
Four more guys wanted to play.
“The hulk” the nickname given our 97 pounder,
Got a slip of paper & the money.
You bet today, you win or lose today.
All losers day one.
At weeks end 12 bettors,
A week later 20 regulars.
Hiding the slips from Mom was getting tricky .
“Jeff, where did you get all that change”?
Betting was very cool,
25 cents, a buck, nothing big.
“Nobody gets hurt”
“Betcha” was in vogue.
Too many would be bettors,
Crowded Jeff’s, desk every morning.
Time to expand.
Jeff put other feet on the floor.
Hiring runners, 10% of the bet,
Spread the joy to happy suckers all over the school.
At 100 betters a day and growing,
He reached out for insurance.
How could he handle days
When the majors went nuts,
20-25 guys with two hits or more?
He didn’t have the loot to cover.
Jeff, now with 6 runners and
Two rich kids providing insurance,
For a small cut,
Had a thriving business
Month three started great.
Got a 4 eye to keep the books
Business up 80%, all bases covered.
Well. almost all.
One of his runners was caught
And suspended for a week.
Jeff’s fate would be a one week hanging,
Followed by an audit. Closing time.
Jeff,, 97 pounds of bone.
A high school sophomore,
A little guy with few friends.
Was there a cure?
3 players 6 hit,
That was the answer!
No, it did not change his weight,
But changed his status.
The piece of history,
Or love of the game,
That drove him to a most excellent idea
Is lost in time.
Monday morning home room,
Once quiet, especially at his desk,
Changed its polarity and popularity.
10 guys crowded his space.
“Betcha”, 3rd behind “fuck” & “shit”
As a high school pronouncement,
Particularly in matters of disagreement,
Resolved most issues.
Perhaps it was the word,
Or whimsically checking the odds,
Our hero took a few friendly bets.
3 players, 6 hits.
At 9 to 1 it looked pretty good to the bettors,
(8 to1 if the batters were on the same team)
Odds on winning? 20 to 1,
Four more guys wanted to play.
“The hulk” the nickname given our 97 pounder,
Got a slip of paper & the money.
You bet today, you win or lose today.
All losers day one.
At weeks end 12 bettors,
A week later 20 regulars.
Hiding the slips from Mom was getting tricky .
“Jeff, where did you get all that change”?
Betting was very cool,
25 cents, a buck, nothing big.
“Nobody gets hurt”
“Betcha” was in vogue.
Too many would be bettors,
Crowded Jeff’s, desk every morning.
Time to expand.
Jeff put other feet on the floor.
Hiring runners, 10% of the bet,
Spread the joy to happy suckers all over the school.
At 100 betters a day and growing,
He reached out for insurance.
How could he handle days
When the majors went nuts,
20-25 guys with two hits or more?
He didn’t have the loot to cover.
Jeff, now with 6 runners and
Two rich kids providing insurance,
For a small cut,
Had a thriving business
Month three started great.
Got a 4 eye to keep the books
Business up 80%, all bases covered.
Well. almost all.
One of his runners was caught
And suspended for a week.
Jeff’s fate would be a one week hanging,
Followed by an audit. Closing time.
Colors
A straight grey man,
He believes in discipline.
Before the accident he was measured,
Now he is firm.
Not as self controlled,
Recovering from a buried husband
She entered with children and issues,
Eyes that easily, often, turned red.
He seemed frustrated.
No joy from stepsons,
No all American family here.
Could I be wrong,
And this is that red, white, and blue family?
He had lived through a spinal injury
That robbed him of diving and running.
Each day planned around his wheelchair,
A black and white, binary, existence.
He’d accepted wife and her children,
Assumed straight talk, without imposing his
Gold bars, to convey his rank and power
Would yield a harvest of family.
For her part this different man,
Needing care and understanding
Not a white grey mist of confusion.
This was not her dream or savior.
Both struggle with depression,
A black presence, makes its home
In the cracks, presses to drive deeper.
A quintessential American story.
He believes in discipline.
Before the accident he was measured,
Now he is firm.
Not as self controlled,
Recovering from a buried husband
She entered with children and issues,
Eyes that easily, often, turned red.
He seemed frustrated.
No joy from stepsons,
No all American family here.
Could I be wrong,
And this is that red, white, and blue family?
He had lived through a spinal injury
That robbed him of diving and running.
Each day planned around his wheelchair,
A black and white, binary, existence.
He’d accepted wife and her children,
Assumed straight talk, without imposing his
Gold bars, to convey his rank and power
Would yield a harvest of family.
For her part this different man,
Needing care and understanding
Not a white grey mist of confusion.
This was not her dream or savior.
Both struggle with depression,
A black presence, makes its home
In the cracks, presses to drive deeper.
A quintessential American story.
The Rise & Fall of Tina
She lagged well behind,
Disassociating, I think,
From the old tutor
Who mentored her each Tuesday.
He was uncomfortable with the separation.
Often she walked a pace off his lead.
Today the spread was much greater,
Tiny was fading
Entering the small room, they often used,
He cleared the desk, of bric-a-brac,
Moved the two folding chairs into place
Turned on the portable, floor heater.
Seven year old Tina, with quiet reluctance,
Seated herself opposite him.
The old man sensed something, caution?
Looking at Tiny he felt his stomach sink.
It had taken only 4 weeks
For this failed 2nd grader,
Unable to add 2 digit numbers,
To multiply 9 by 7.
He wondered at the change,
But had no idea of the cause.
Certainly, he had not seen such a leap
In10 years of mentoring.
Not given to ethereal interventions,
He knew his efforts, on her behalf
Were perhaps helpful,
Yet, did not explain the metamorphosis.
For 2 weeks after the math display,
That had catapulted her, to star status
Tiny wanted nothing more than to solve arithmetic problems.
He had witnessed an epiphany.
The old tutor was elated.
When had he seen such an awakening?
Never!
He did not believe in miracles.
Could such a possibility be spread?
Could others achieve this transformation?
Ill equipped, by books or experience,
He prepared to enter the world of the perplexed.
He’d done no research prior to today’s session.
There were questions he would ask,
But she was particularly withdrawn this morning,
Something was not right.
Tina was not interested in reading or spelling,
So he turned to math, again she shook her head.
Persuading her to try,
He began with 9 times 2.
She began counting on her fingers.
He was watching his world implode.
A god he rejected was laughing.
Barely containing his shock,
Trying to appear sympathetic,
Dumfounded by the change
He recalled others’ failed epiphanies.
Gone, all gone.
In Tina’s seat sat a sadly familiar child,
The one he’d helped years before,
Or was it just weeks.
Disassociating, I think,
From the old tutor
Who mentored her each Tuesday.
He was uncomfortable with the separation.
Often she walked a pace off his lead.
Today the spread was much greater,
Tiny was fading
Entering the small room, they often used,
He cleared the desk, of bric-a-brac,
Moved the two folding chairs into place
Turned on the portable, floor heater.
Seven year old Tina, with quiet reluctance,
Seated herself opposite him.
The old man sensed something, caution?
Looking at Tiny he felt his stomach sink.
It had taken only 4 weeks
For this failed 2nd grader,
Unable to add 2 digit numbers,
To multiply 9 by 7.
He wondered at the change,
But had no idea of the cause.
Certainly, he had not seen such a leap
In10 years of mentoring.
Not given to ethereal interventions,
He knew his efforts, on her behalf
Were perhaps helpful,
Yet, did not explain the metamorphosis.
For 2 weeks after the math display,
That had catapulted her, to star status
Tiny wanted nothing more than to solve arithmetic problems.
He had witnessed an epiphany.
The old tutor was elated.
When had he seen such an awakening?
Never!
He did not believe in miracles.
Could such a possibility be spread?
Could others achieve this transformation?
Ill equipped, by books or experience,
He prepared to enter the world of the perplexed.
He’d done no research prior to today’s session.
There were questions he would ask,
But she was particularly withdrawn this morning,
Something was not right.
Tina was not interested in reading or spelling,
So he turned to math, again she shook her head.
Persuading her to try,
He began with 9 times 2.
She began counting on her fingers.
He was watching his world implode.
A god he rejected was laughing.
Barely containing his shock,
Trying to appear sympathetic,
Dumfounded by the change
He recalled others’ failed epiphanies.
Gone, all gone.
In Tina’s seat sat a sadly familiar child,
The one he’d helped years before,
Or was it just weeks.
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