Sunday, July 06, 2008

BECKER’S TONGUE (LAMENT FOR EUROPE)

Here we go again, that tongue-wagging,
that bravado part of your psyche,
your heritage, sense of self, suppressed
sixty years ago when shame took hold.

Such lava passion oozes through cracks,
then congeals at the intersection
of madness, menace, folly and fear:
perfidy from the jealous cuckold.

But I see the hanging tongue, the lunge,
the outward display an army’s march
movement to music sets, no matter
how disturbing or wanton the song.

The tongue turns right, and Agassi knows
the direction Becker’s serve will go.

Abrasion disguises the fissure.
This sweep of suspicion, printing of lines,
loudest in a series of signals
issuing an inaudible bleep.

Fathom deposits thawed are expressed,
strain revealing deep lines in your face.
Whether the ooze a continent coats
rests on whether a continent sleeps.

But I see the hanging tongue, the stick
pointing players to strengthen and strike,
the stick they watch no matter the song.
For playing together is to belong.

The tongue turns right, and Agassi knows
the direction Becker’s serve will go.


Adam Parker
July 6, 2008

DOs AND DON'Ts

A Democratic Government is supposed to be good for you. It exists because of you.

So when government which is supposed to be good for you is not good for you, who recognizes the problem? Is it possible the problem will go unnoticed, only to linger in the vapors of democracy before expiring like a distant star?

This is how you make problems vanish. You fail to notice them.

But what happens when someone notices? Possibly two things. Information tumbles out, and you go to retrieve it. As you go to retrieve it, pieces are being snatched away by suddenly greedy hands. You might fight for the whole bundle or be forced to satisfy yourself with a few scraps.

If you are energetic enough to look into the matter, you might flesh out your bits, or even discover something new. If you managed to keep it together, then, in the evening hours before darkness enrobes the world, you could sit in your comfortable chair and learn.

You learn what went wrong. You learn about deceit and theft and exploitation, you learn about lies and distortions, you learn about pain and death.

Because of the deceit and lies and death, you would know that the government is not being good. You would know that you are in harm’s way. You would know that nothing is perfect.

What to do? Should you hunker down and protect your assets? Should you join forces with others in the same boat? Should you voice your opinions? Should you vote the bums out?

And what are in your best interests, anyway? To pull into the carport and see a vista of green? To collect the mail without getting shot? To install a GPS system? To horde money? To give money away?

Or do you just want to have fun? It’s fun to shop. It’s fun ride a roller coaster. It’s fun to go on road trips. It’s fun to get dinner and a movie. It’s fun to look good. When you are looking good riding a roller coaster, hands in the air, your hair like flame from a jet, it’s hard to pay attention to other things.

But the less you pay attention, the more easily you are duped. If you are duped, then government cannot be good. If the government is not good, you should do something. What are you going to do?

And what about the one who brought this whole mess to your attention? He needs your help. If it weren’t for him, you’d be on a road trip right now.

Outside the window the muggy day congeals, and rain comes down, first in big drops that splash onto your ankles, then is a steadier rat-a-tat that slickens the asphalt.

Some are walking with umbrellas, others lift hoods over the heads. A few make a mad dash for cover.

No one is looking into the sky.

A Proud Sponsor's Message

“There are 6 billion of us,” Morgan Freeman begins, his warm, rumbling baritone lulling us from the start. “We all come from unique places with unique ways of looking at the world. We don’t always agree, but for a few shining weeks we set it all aside.” The images of hands outstretched toward the golden sky, the smile of a Nigerian runner only half believing the display, sharing an amazed embrace with her teammates, the burning torch, the flapping flags, are arranged to convey a sense of humanity and common purpose. “We come together and stand and cheer and celebrate as one,” Freeman rumbles on, slowly. “We forget all the things that make us different and remember all the things that make us the same.” Then a cluster of hands thrust upward form the background for the message: “GO WORLD.” As these words fade, the corporate logo appears in their place, and Freeman’s voice is back. “Visa, proud sponsor of the Olympic Games,” he says, as if the company were rooting for everyone no matter country of origin, and he could have left it at that. But Freeman’s baritone continues, abandoning the lofty sentiments and returning us to an earthly realm of consumerism and transaction processing and privilege. “And the only card accepted there,” he says.
So organized sport might be the thing that brings us together, but only the Visa cardholder can buy a little piece of that spirit. The rest of us--the poor, huddled masses who can merely dream of carrying around an imprinted plastic card, the key to the Olympics, the key that sets the torch aflame and makes Nigerians smile--the rest of us must be content to watch the games on TV.
And dream. Dream the Visa dream, the American Dream, the dream of comfort and success and leisure. We can dream about buying power. We can dream about status and class. We can strive to achieve these things, to possess the card that gets you in.
Go world? Go you.