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July 22, 2004

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Let's go, then. No apologies to Harry Belafonte, although I will offer them to Davinci's Notebook... ;)

Moe

Blog, blog, blog some more-a, blog the party line
Blog, blog, blog some more-a, blogging all the time
Link, click, read and track back, work without a dime;
Blog, blog, blog some more-a, blogging all the time

Our blog's name is O-B-Wi. I tell you friends it is nifty.
When we're surfing oh, brother,
We're clicking through in all kinds of weather.

Jump to the site, to see the full cite.
O-kay! I believe you. (3 times)
Click to the site, to see the full cite.
Oh!

Blog, blog, blog...etc.

You can talk about Insty, Redstate, Kos or Cal Monthly.
O-B-Wi's keeping it flowing.
Get in to the talking and see where it's going.

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O-kay! I believe you.
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Don't Dowd me, Child!
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FEAR THE PIGEONS!!
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Oh!

Blog, blog, blog...etc.

O-B-Wi she's unnatural, downright counter-fact-ual.
Left and Right with no killing;
When we start up the haiku, the poetry get thrilling.

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O-kay! I believe you.
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"Show us your primary sources!"
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SNIPER KITTEN!
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Oh!

Blog, blog, blog...etc.

O-B-Wi blogs as we like to. Left to Right we delight to.
And when we get a bit burned out,
We Poetry Slam and dance with the turn out.

Jump to the site, to see the full cite.
O-kay! I believe you.
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Mr... Johnny Cash!
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O-kay! I believe you.
Jump to the site, to see the full cite.
Oh!

Blog, blog, blog...etc.

I'm wearing no pants

(And fifteen minutes early, too!)

You have a deadline for taking off your pants?

I'm off to dinner
At Rubicon I'll eat it
Yea! the client pays

Past the Dogma Whirls
EdWard's Totally unPC Poem

Well, the East Coast Dems can flip
But still we dig their savoir faire

And the Southern Reps, with the way they rig,
They hang some wicked chads down there

The midwest farmers vote for
Whiche're side will subsidize

And the Northern hook and bullet kin
They keep their guns Right by their sides.

I wish they all could see Past the Dogma

I wish they all could see Past the Dogma

I wish they all could see Past the Dogma Whirls

yeah, so "Whirls"...like what's that?

Hey, yeah? Well GET OFF MY BACK!!!

Sorry...lot's of stress at work today.

Big smiles all around
Blinking outside the bunker
Now go fuck yourself

I'm off to dinner
At Rubicon I'll eat it
Yea! the client pays

You bastard! I worked
around the corner from there
several years.

Never got to eat there though...

Fall of the towers
Autumn in New York: burning
leaves fall like planes.

House fallen, son dead
Mother calls on God to hear;
same in any language.

Gold speaks smooth-tongued
seductive, persuasive, wrong
oily whispering.

You have a deadline for taking off your pants?

Does not everyone?
Six o'clock, right on the nose
The trousers drop (wheeee!)

Not idly do the pants
of Lorien fall: it is
six o'clock - von pants!

Woe, woe, and woe, woe!
Remember personal info?
check box not working!

Not idly do the pants of Lorien fall

I think I saw that title at my local "bookstore" . . . .

Loth as I am to give the nod to Jesurgislac...he's urned it.

In other areas, though, he's way off vase.

I wish that you perverts would keep on your clothes
The thought of y'all naked is really quite gross
Even my dog here's so scared he could pee
From the thought of you all, in full nudity

There once was a blogger named von
Who wrote at a friendly dot-com
He's a poetry leader,
But quoth all the readers:
Oh, please won't you keep your pants on?

Commission report
Arrives to no small fanfare:
Everybody's fault!

Just for you, Phillip.

It is oft seen that those who wear not clothes
Are found to fret of sun and cold and rain
Most of their days and nights - but no man knows
Sorrow like those attacked by cruel disdain
Or perhaps e'en the lash of scorn and wrath
By those that lack blemish or flabby flesh
Unlike those souls forced cruelly down the path
Clothed, hot, sweaty, dirty, unfresh.

Keep hold thy scorn: I proudly note my need -
Need to keep my skin free from burn and ice -
And no matter how my soul might beg and plead
Kept on my clothes shall be, because I'm nice.
Especially now, with sun in summer;
Degree-burns - any! - always a bummer.

Hark! Thy pants be tight
Unbutton them sayest thou
Liberty abounds!

Burmese men wear longgyi.
Like sarong, gives feeling of
Wonderful pantslessness.

Hey Pinnochio!
Whether pants are on or off
Bursting into flames

Would that I could share
freedom from pants tyrant
But I am at work.

Wisdom says there is
A time and place for everything.
But, alas, not pants.

SESTINA: ON POLITICS AND PANTS

Inscrutable is the world of online blogs.
Some writers write without their pants.
Opinions run the range of politics:
Some complain about Kerry,
Some about Bush,
Some, even still, about Clinton.

Ah, how we miss the days of Clinton!
What fodder he would give us for our blogs:
His sins more juicy than those of mundane Kerry,
A world of trouble unleashed from in his pants;
Sandwiched between the two Presidents Bush,
'Twas an amusing time for politics.

We've grown more surly since in politics,
We're all now Scaife to our own personal Clinton;
Team Bush spouts negative attacks on Kerry
And "Anyone But Bush" plagues lefty blogs.
Each side accuses the other of flaming pants,
'Til we're all sick of Kerry and of Bush.

First, let us consider the case of Bush:
Latecomer to Dad's trade of politics,
Brought to success by the seat of his pants,
He was elected (sort of) after Clinton
And his term's been marked of late, in news and blogs,
Of whether he could be displaced by Kerry.

"Of course, he's no great shakes," Dems say of Kerry,
"But we're so sick of Bush's politics
That we'll defend our John in fiery blogs
And hope that he can save us from George Bush."
Meanwhile, the pundits dream of Hillary Clinton
Or what's been stowed in Sandy Berger's pants.

Is Mr. Kerry's speech too fancy-pants?
Is Bush consistent, unlike wavering Kerry?
(Let's just say this: John, you're no Bill Clinton.)
But is the team of this insipid Bush
And Richard F*cking Cheney better politics?
The debate's still clogging up the blogs.

The left sides craves and pants for "no more Bush!"
The right recoils at Kerry's politics.
And ghosts of Clinton haunt poetic blogs.

1.
One hemisphere wide
Nagoya to Detroit time
Can't smoke or drop trou

2.
Summer festival
Flying colors all around
One squid on a stick

3.
Waves rise from the road
Hello Kitty fan turns slow
A cold bath beckons

Off topic query
How does the track back thing work?
Rice shoots sway wildly

I have to admit
Seth's topical sestina
Beats my acrostic.

Thanks for the clue, Moe --
I didn't even spot your
"initial" message.

Unlike some haikus
This one's perfect, with only
Seventeen sylla

First of four—don’t worry, I’m posting them in decreasing order of seriousness.

Interesting Times
The stewardesses scream. The co-pilot opens the cockpit to see what's wrong.
The jet makes a sudden turn and plows into the North Tower.
The other plane, they later say, was going so fast it almost disintegrated before it hit.
The evacuation order comes over the loudspeaker.
The stairwells fill too quickly.
The people on the upper floors call their wives.

The ash rains over the coffee and donut trucks on Wall Street.
The refugees stream over the Brooklyn Bridge.
The emergency rooms are prepared, the young residents' faces set.
The ambulances do not arrive.
The blood donations replenish supplies at midwestern hospitals.
The posters--it feels wrong to avoid them, but they are too hard to look at.

The President makes a speech, and an uneasy wait begins.
The bombers begin their runs over Kandahar a few weeks later.
The Northern Alliance advances slowly, and then suddenly
the Taliban has fled Kabul for the caves.
The women take off their burkas and walk outside, but do not stay;
the city streets are not safe after dark. The provinces, they are never safe.

The Hart Senate Office building is evacuated, then
the National Enquirer office, then Rockefeller Plaza.
The plane crash in Rockaway turns out to be a mechanical failure.
The mail is irradiated and opened with rubber globes.
The doctors reassure their patients.
The doctors write Cipro prescriptions for their families.

The flags are everywhere on your street.
The seventh inning stretch now features a bald eagle named Challenger.
The mayor has become an honest-to-God national hero,
the same ornery man hated by half the city a few months ago.
The crowds outside the embassy in Tehran are all Americans.
The crowds outside the Atlanta state house are all New Yorkers.

The normal rhythm of days returns slowly.
The New York Times editorial page criticizes Giuliani.
The late night talk show host nervously cracks a joke.
The Red Sox fans, after much soul searching, decide the Yankees still do suck.
The southern politicians remember the northeastern cities are dens of iniquity.
The homeland security budget is adjusted accordingly.

The newspapers mourn the loss of national unity, but honestly it's a relief.
The sense of living in history fades.
The law school applications and wedding plans take precedence.
The subway riders feel safe enough to get bored again, stare blankly again at
the podiatrists' ads which are now required to salute New Yorkers' strength and courage.
The skyline no longer looks hollow.

The precise moment is hard to identify,
the day you realize that we are definitely going to invade.
The president furrows his brow and assumes an expression of resolve.
The smoking gun cannot be a mushroom cloud.
The Senate cannot risk a real debate in an election year.
The plane crashes in Eveleth. The security council is a bad soap opera.

The city of Baghdad looks nothing like it did in 1991.
The night vision goggles help a little, but on the war's first day
the CNN footage makes you nauseous. You tell yourself not to be an idiot;
the hawks really have the better humanitarian argument, and they say
the civilian casualties are miraculously low. But you can't shake
the fear that this is a terrible mistake, and the burning buildings are much too familiar.

First of four—don’t worry, I’m posting them in decreasing order of seriousness.

Interesting Times
The stewardesses scream. The co-pilot opens the cockpit to see what's wrong.
The jet makes a sudden turn and plows into the North Tower.
The other plane, they later say, was going so fast it almost disintegrated before it hit.
The evacuation order comes over the loudspeaker.
The stairwells fill too quickly.
The people on the upper floors call their wives.

The ash rains over the coffee and donut trucks on Wall Street.
The refugees stream over the Brooklyn Bridge.
The emergency rooms are prepared, the young residents' faces set.
The ambulances do not arrive.
The blood donations replenish supplies at midwestern hospitals.
The posters--it feels wrong to avoid them, but they are too hard to look at.

The President makes a speech, and an uneasy wait begins.
The bombers begin their runs over Kandahar a few weeks later.
The Northern Alliance advances slowly, and then suddenly
the Taliban has fled Kabul for the caves.
The women take off their burkas and walk outside, but do not stay;
the city streets are not safe after dark. The provinces, they are never safe.

The Hart Senate Office building is evacuated, then
the National Enquirer office, then Rockefeller Plaza.
The plane crash in Rockaway turns out to be a mechanical failure.
The mail is irradiated and opened with rubber globes.
The doctors reassure their patients.
The doctors write Cipro prescriptions for their families.

The flags are everywhere on your street.
The seventh inning stretch now features a bald eagle named Challenger.
The mayor has become an honest-to-God national hero,
the same ornery man hated by half the city a few months ago.
The crowds outside the embassy in Tehran are all Americans.
The crowds outside the Atlanta state house are all New Yorkers.

The normal rhythm of days returns slowly.
The New York Times editorial page criticizes Giuliani.
The late night talk show host nervously cracks a joke.
The Red Sox fans, after much soul searching, decide the Yankees still do suck.
The southern politicians remember the northeastern cities are dens of iniquity.
The homeland security budget is adjusted accordingly.

The newspapers mourn the loss of national unity, but honestly it's a relief.
The sense of living in history fades.
The law school applications and wedding plans take precedence.
The subway riders feel safe enough to get bored again, stare blankly again at
the podiatrists' ads which are now required to salute New Yorkers' strength and courage.
The skyline no longer looks hollow.

The precise moment is hard to identify,
the day you realize that we are definitely going to invade.
The president furrows his brow and assumes an expression of resolve.
The smoking gun cannot be a mushroom cloud.
The Senate cannot risk a real debate in an election year.
The plane crashes in Eveleth. The security council is a bad soap opera.

The city of Baghdad looks nothing like it did in 1991.
The night vision goggles help a little, but on the war's first day
the CNN footage makes you nauseous. You tell yourself not to be an idiot;
the hawks really have the better humanitarian argument, and they say
the civilian casualties are miraculously low. But you can't shake
the fear that this is a terrible mistake, and the burning buildings are much too familiar.

argh! damn you double posts!

Here's #2:
Like a Noo Yawker
She doesn't know the word for what she is to this city.
Born in a 3-bedroom north of Chelsea, but her family moved soon after,
and her memories begin beneath snowbanks in Maine.
Feels honor-bound, when asked where she is from,
to answer sheepishly, "Long Island--Nassau County".
Likes to believe, without any real evidence for it, that
it's because of those early years in Manhattan
that she can fall asleep between express stops.

It is on the subway, a late night F train from Carroll Gardens,
that the right word finally comes to her:
An apprentice, that's what she is,
taking careful notes on how to crease the Times
with one hand on a crowded rush hour car.
She's an indifferent seatmate, narrow shouldered
but always twisting around to look at the map
to count the lines she's ridden so far this summer:

The one nine, two three, four five and six. All the numbers, then,
if she takes the seven out to Shea in August.
The C, the E, the F, the J, the N and R, the V,
and one of the orange lettered lines
she can never keep straight--either the B or the Q.
An impressive list, as many as a real New Yorker….
But you'd never catch a real New Yorker counting, would you;
not after she had graduated the sixth grade. Damnit.

She's close, but she needs to learn to take this place for granted.
Give her that, an apartment search, a four square foot kitchen,
and next time someone asks where she's from, she can answer,
with shoulders squared and conscience clear, "Brooklyn."

This one's similar to the last, but why not:

Revised View of The World From Ninth Avenue

I.
It began as a deliberately pointless conversation
with my sister, stuck in traffic last Saturday afternoon.
The topic: whether the East Side or West Side of Manhattan
would win in a fight. The boundary: Fifth Avenue.
The ground rules: no firearms, no explosives, no mercenaries
from the outer boroughs, no handicaps for population or area.

Before deciding whether Chelsea could beat up Murray Hill
or Belvedere Castle could withstand an amphibious assault from the reservoir,
we obviously needed some basic intelligence: the population,
the terrain, how far north Washington Heights continued past Harlem,
how far the Lower East Side stretched into the river.
We got out the road atlas, turned to the worn page.

And so I learned, at the age of 25, that Washington Heights
is actually further east than the Lower East Side,
and the Brooklyn Bridge is west of the George Washington,
and the subway map notwithstanding,
Manhattan’s avenues do not run straight from south to north.
nor its streets from east to west.

II.
This was not so much surprising as it was heretical—
Rand McNally’s 1999 Deluxe Edition,
the Galileo to my Gothamocentric model of the universe.
I could admit that the MTA map might be wrong; it did say “not to scale”,
and I knew Central Park was not that short or wide. But was I really
supposed to accept that I could no longer set my compass by those avenues?

I still crossed Lexington like a tourist,
nearly tripping over the waves the pothole patches had made
in the asphalt because I was staring up or downtown
all the way to the Chrysler building.
Wondering not how they put on that silver spire,
but how they made the street so straight.

Now I was supposed to believe that it pointed
in no particular direction; that meandering Broadway
ran closer to due north? Please.
But when I looked down again,
the map was as stubborn as its predecessor,
and I was no pope. "Eppur, si muove."

author's notes:
1) The title is from this">http://www.penceland.com/ViewoftheWorldfrom9thAvenue.gif">this famous drawing.

2) "Eppur si muove" means "still it moves," what Galileo supposedly said to the pope after he recanted about the earth going around the sun (almost certainly apocryphal.)

3) Yes, this conversation & realization actually happened.

Letters, They Get Letters

Gentle readers,

That lovable scamp Miguel Miranda has emailed me. He’s hacked into the Senate email server again, but this time he’s not doing it for partisan purposes, but to bring a little more poetry into your lives. Enjoy, and please let us know if he's forwarded anything to you.

To: the Democratic Caucus
From: Dick Cheney

Roses are red,
Violets are blue.
Go f*ck yourselves,
And your mothers too.

To: the citizens of Texas
From: John Cornyn

Roses are red,
Violets are purple.
Only I can save you,
From man-on-box-turtle.

To: swing state voters
From: John Edwards

Roses are red,
Pickles are dill.
I’m the son of a mill worker,
And my dad worked in a mill.

To: homosexual activists
From: Rick Santorum

You gays are so silly,
Your feelings so delicate.
I don’t hate you; I love you,
as long as you’re celibate.

P.S. But if you’re not, the terrorists have already won. No offense or anything.

To: LISTSERV--alt.democratic.minions
From: Hillary Clinton

Roses are red,
(the hour draws near. The botoxed one approaches his hometown,)
Violets are blue.
(Naively believing his nomination is secure)
Sugar is sweet
(Unaware of what lies in wait beneath the Fleet Center)
And so are you.
(You know your tasks. The sparrow flies at dawn. Godspeed.)

(Miranda believes that he has found an audio tape that coincides with Senator Clinton's message. A transcription follows.)
(static) (45 seconds of maniacal laughter) “No, Mr. Bigglesworth, we mustn’t cc William Safire again. Get down from there RIGHT NOW!”(expletive) (expletive) (anatomic impossible act) (obscene gerund) (term that would make Dick Cheney blush). “BAD Mr. Bigglesworth!”


1) I'm repeating what others have said, but "Not idly do the pants of Lorien fall" would be the best title ever for the geekiest porn movie ever.

2) Moe, can I convince you to cross post your 9.11 commission report haiku from redstate yesterday, and maybe also your observation on "Lepanto" from last week?

Pantsless on Saturday
to Sweden I'm gone.
The secret is never
putting them on.

Pantaloonery

One leg at a time
That's how Berger stuffed 'em
He thought it no crime
Until Ashcroft cuffed him

Hey Josh, R was good
The price was even better
They poured no Maker's ;(

"2) Moe, can I convince you to cross post your 9.11 commission report haiku from redstate yesterday, and maybe also your observation on "Lepanto" from last week?"

It means Kinko trip
On my lunch break; however,
I hear and obey.

Moe

PS: No worries, people
About my change in lunch plans -
Bagel place downstairs.

3 9/11 Commission Haiku Review


The drifting snowflake
May call forth the avalanche;
But it's not our fault.

The river rages
At the bright, placid garden -
New agency, please.

Bad government drones!
Bad, bad, bad, bad, bad, bad, bad!
Except Bush, Clinton.

Report of the Cheney Vice Presidential Selection Advisory Committee, June 2000
After searching from Austin to Kalamazoo,
And from sea to shining sea,
It's my solemn obligation to inform you:
The best man for the job is…me.

From sleep's cotton sea
Into this heterogeneity of color and essence
To discover again
She, the Flannel Elemental
Still in that world
Where Baby Blue is for smell

Oh. . heliophobe, how will you grow?
And if you grow,
And if you grow old,
Will you recall what you drew
here in the sand,
earth to toe,
while the Chariot kindly departed
and let our beach rest cold?

Very good poem Moe Lane (i mean the first one). it reflects the spirit of this blog :)

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