I just found this site. Indolent Books is an independent poetry press, publishing "a poem a day by a different poet exploring and responding to our nation's political reality." 

Here is today's poem. In one paragraph, the poet demonstrates the true nature of the president's "safe" dogwhistle garbage. 

Robbie Gamble
Ars Protectica: A Monosyllabus
 
We will need lots of words, big words. Not big as in long, but big as in words that feel big, words that are clear, words like “strong” and “win” and “fight back” and “they will pay” and “build the wall.” Don’t say “black” or “brown,” just say “them,” and we will know what we mean. Save the weak words for them, words like “fail” and “thug” and “sad.” Words that will keep them far from us. For they aren’t like us. No, not at all. Think of the words that will keep us safe from them: “lock ‘em up” and “lock and load” and “stand your ground.” Great words. And “safe,” such a fine word, too. One of the best. Now then, think of things we need to buy more of: bombs, jets, ships, tanks. We can buy more of them if we don’t pay a lot for things we don’t need so much, like health care and clean air and meals on wheels and the arts. These things won’t keep us safe, so why pay for them? Think of all the threats in the world. The world is not a safe place now, but we can make it safe, just for us, if we stick to my plan. Trust me.

Another thing I just noticed: these are all one-syllable words (except for the one contraction). You know, the state of the world today has moved beyond one-syllable words, beyond simplistic, outdated concepts. Our world is complicated, difficult and sophisticated, and we need a leader in this country that can deal with the world as it is, not as how he wishes it could be and never will be again (and never was, for that matter). 

Unfortunately, we didn't get said leader, and this country (and indeed, the entire world) will suffer because of it. And we need people like this poet to keep pointing out that inescapable fact. 
By accident most strange, bountiful Fortune —
Now my dear lady — hath mine enemies
Brought to this shore; and by my prescience
I find my zenith doth depend upon
A most auspicious star, whose influence
If now I court not, but omit, my fortunes
Will ever after droop.
 
"The Tempest," William Shakespeare
 
Good heavens. Here is a newly discovered poem by Carl Sandberg that could have been written yesterday--or more to the point, on the night of February 26, 2012.
 
A Revolver
 
Here is a revolver.
It has an amazing language all its own.
It delivers unmistakable ultimatums.
It is the last word.
A simple, little human forefinger can tell a terrible story with it.
Hunger, fear, revenge, robbery hide behind it.
It is the claw of the jungle made quick and powerful.
It is the club of the savage turned to magnificent precision.
It is more rapid than any judge or court of law.
It is less subtle and treacherous than any one lawyer or ten.
When it has spoken, the case can not be appealed to the supreme court, nor any mandamus nor any injunction nor any stay of execution in and interfere with the original purpose.
And nothing in human philosophy persists more strangely than the old belief that God is always on the side of those who have the most revolvers.
 
Wow. Talk about prescience. 

 
The Absolute Last Word on the Colorado Shooting, by Jim Wright.

This is the cost of civilization, right?

Twelve more dead kids in a movie theater. That’s freedom, right there. That’s liberty. That’s America goddamn it. That’s what I spent my whole life in uniform defending, the right to have twelve more slaughtered innocents and blood running in the streets.

You just can’t stop it.  Crazy people with guns and random carnage are the price you pay so that the rest of us can be free.

And the only way to combat it is, well, to literally combat it, with more guns. Big fucking guns.

Seriously? That’s your solution?

Armor up and shoot it out?

Read. The. Whole. Thing.
The Absolute Last Word on the Colorado Shooting, by Jim Wright.

This is the cost of civilization, right?

Twelve more dead kids in a movie theater. That’s freedom, right there. That’s liberty. That’s America goddamn it. That’s what I spent my whole life in uniform defending, the right to have twelve more slaughtered innocents and blood running in the streets.

You just can’t stop it.  Crazy people with guns and random carnage are the price you pay so that the rest of us can be free.

And the only way to combat it is, well, to literally combat it, with more guns. Big fucking guns.

Seriously? That’s your solution?

Armor up and shoot it out?

Read. The. Whole. Thing.
The following is a reply to the Super Bowl Dodge commercial. I didn't see it myself, but there's a wonderful take-down of it here, where I also gakked the aptly named "Woman's Last Stand." 

(EDIT: Arggh---YouTube won't embed. Go here to view.)

(Note: Don't read the comments--for the most part, they're just putrid.)

Transcript:

I will get up and pack your lunch at 6:30 AM.

I will eat half a grapefruit for breakfast.

I will get the kids ready for school.

I will ignore your smelly loser friend who is crashing on our couch.

I will make seventy-five cents for every dollar you make doing the same job.

I will assert myself and get called a bitch.

I will catch you staring at my breasts and pretend not to notice.

I will put my career on hold to raise your children.

I will diet, Botox, and wax everything.

I will assure you that size doesn't matter.

I will be a lady in the street but a freak in the bed.

I will turn a blind eye to your ever-encroaching baldness.

I will humor your fantasy baseball obsession.

I will pretend not to notice when you cry at the end of "Rudy."
(This is the only thing I couldn't understand--is this some tear-jerker movie I've never heard of?)

I will watch TV shows where fat, stupid, unattractive men have beautiful wives.

I will allow you to cheat on me with younger women.

I will see "Paul Blart--Mall Cop" twice.
(I've never heard of this movie either, but even the title sounds idiotic.)

I will elect male politicians who make decisions about my body.

I will listen to Rush and tell you, "Yes, if there were a gold medal for air-drumming, you would win it." 
(With all due respect, Rush is a pretty awesome band. Neal Peart is one of the most erudite, well-read lyricists in the rock world. Read the lyrics for "Witch Hunt" if you don't believe me.)

I will get angry and you will ask if it's that time of the month.

I will watch Super Bowl commercials that depict men as emasculated and oppressed and I will feel so fucking sorry for you.


The Dodge guy sounds like a whiny-ass, entitled baby in comparison.
The following is a reply to the Super Bowl Dodge commercial. I didn't see it myself, but there's a wonderful take-down of it here, where I also gakked the aptly named "Woman's Last Stand." 

(EDIT: Arggh---YouTube won't embed. Go here to view.)

(Note: Don't read the comments--for the most part, they're just putrid.)

Transcript:

I will get up and pack your lunch at 6:30 AM.

I will eat half a grapefruit for breakfast.

I will get the kids ready for school.

I will ignore your smelly loser friend who is crashing on our couch.

I will make seventy-five cents for every dollar you make doing the same job.

I will assert myself and get called a bitch.

I will catch you staring at my breasts and pretend not to notice.

I will put my career on hold to raise your children.

I will diet, Botox, and wax everything.

I will assure you that size doesn't matter.

I will be a lady in the street but a freak in the bed.

I will turn a blind eye to your ever-encroaching baldness.

I will humor your fantasy baseball obsession.

I will pretend not to notice when you cry at the end of "Rudy."
(This is the only thing I couldn't understand--is this some tear-jerker movie I've never heard of?)

I will watch TV shows where fat, stupid, unattractive men have beautiful wives.

I will allow you to cheat on me with younger women.

I will see "Paul Blart--Mall Cop" twice.
(I've never heard of this movie either, but even the title sounds idiotic.)

I will elect male politicians who make decisions about my body.

I will listen to Rush and tell you, "Yes, if there were a gold medal for air-drumming, you would win it." 
(With all due respect, Rush is a pretty awesome band. Neal Peart is one of the most erudite, well-read lyricists in the rock world. Read the lyrics for "Witch Hunt" if you don't believe me.)

I will get angry and you will ask if it's that time of the month.

I will watch Super Bowl commercials that depict men as emasculated and oppressed and I will feel so fucking sorry for you.


The Dodge guy sounds like a whiny-ass, entitled baby in comparison.
With all the accolades deservedly given Captain "Sully" Sullenberger in the "Hudson splashdown," the role of the flight attendants has been overlooked.

This article addresses that.

Pilot Chesley "Sully" Sullenberger has garnered most of the headlines for safely piloting a crippled jet onto the Hudson River, but investigators and aviation workers say there is an unsung group that also deserves praise: the three flight attendants on board.

Sheila Dail, 57, Doreen Welsh, 58, and Donna Dent, 51 — with a combined 92 years of experience on the job — were the ones who opened emergency exits, ordered passengers to don life jackets and directed them out of the plane. All 150 passengers escaped.

I think these women are the true heroes of the entire incident, because they prevented 150 people from panicking. Had that happened, there's a good chance some of the passengers would have been injured, and possibly not everyone would have gotten off the plane before it sank.

This is not to take one iota of credit away from Capt. Sullenberger. His setting that plane down without tearing it apart gave everyone a chance to survive. But the flight attendants' training and calm authority enabled everyone on board to take advantage of that opportunity instead of squandering it.

So let's give credit where credit is due.


 



With all the accolades deservedly given Captain "Sully" Sullenberger in the "Hudson splashdown," the role of the flight attendants has been overlooked.

This article addresses that.

Pilot Chesley "Sully" Sullenberger has garnered most of the headlines for safely piloting a crippled jet onto the Hudson River, but investigators and aviation workers say there is an unsung group that also deserves praise: the three flight attendants on board.

Sheila Dail, 57, Doreen Welsh, 58, and Donna Dent, 51 — with a combined 92 years of experience on the job — were the ones who opened emergency exits, ordered passengers to don life jackets and directed them out of the plane. All 150 passengers escaped.

I think these women are the true heroes of the entire incident, because they prevented 150 people from panicking. Had that happened, there's a good chance some of the passengers would have been injured, and possibly not everyone would have gotten off the plane before it sank.

This is not to take one iota of credit away from Capt. Sullenberger. His setting that plane down without tearing it apart gave everyone a chance to survive. But the flight attendants' training and calm authority enabled everyone on board to take advantage of that opportunity instead of squandering it.

So let's give credit where credit is due.


 



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Words To Live By

There is no frigate like a book to take us lands away. ~Emily Dickinson

Being a writer is a very peculiar sort of a job: it’s always you versus a blank sheet of paper (or a blank screen) and quite often the blank piece of paper wins. ~Neil Gaiman

Of course I am not worried about intimidating men. The type of man who will be intimidated by me is exactly the type of man I have no interest in. ~Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

The road to hell is paved with adverbs. ~Stephen King

The man who does not read has no advantage over the man who cannot read. ~Mark Twain

I feel free and strong. If I were not a reader of books I could not feel this way. ~Walter Tevis

A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies. The man who never reads lives only one. ~George R.R. Martin

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