The US Geological Survey recorded a minor earthquake this morning with its epicenter near Wasilla, Alaska, the probable result of Sarah Palin opening her mail box to find the latest issue of CounterPunch magazine we sent her. A few moments later she Instagrammed this startling comment…
The lunatic Right certainly has plenty of problems. We’ve made it our business to not only expose these absurdities, but to challenge them directly. With another election cycle gaining steam, more rhetoric and vitriol will be directed at progressive issues. More hatred will be spewed at minorities, women, gays and the poor. There will be calls for more fracking and war. We won’t back down like the Democrats. We’ll continue to publish fact-based critiques and investigative reports on the shenanigans and evil of the Radical Right. Our future is in your hands. Please donate.
Yes, these are dire political times. Many who optimistically hoped for real change have spent nearly five years under the cold downpour of political reality. Here at CounterPunch we’ve always aimed to tell it like it is, without illusions or despair. That’s why so many of you have found a refuge at CounterPunch and made us your homepage. You tell us that you love CounterPunch because the quality of the writing you find here in the original articles we offer every day and because we never flinch under fire. We appreciate the support and are prepared for the fierce battles to come.
Unlike other outfits, we don’t hit you up for money every month … or even every quarter. We ask only once a year. But when we ask, we mean it.
CounterPunch’s website is supported almost entirely by subscribers to the print edition of our magazine. We aren’t on the receiving end of six-figure grants from big foundations. George Soros doesn’t have us on retainer. We don’t sell tickets on cruise liners. We don’t clog our site with deceptive corporate ads.
The continued existence of CounterPunch depends solely on the support and dedication of our readers. We know there are a lot of you. We get thousands of emails from you every day. Our website receives millions of hits and nearly 100,000 readers each day. And we don’t charge you a dime.
Please, use our brand new secure shopping cart to make a tax-deductible donation to CounterPunch today or purchase a subscription our monthly magazine and a gift sub for someone or one of our explosive books, including the ground-breaking Killing Trayvons. Show a little affection for subversion: consider an automated monthly donation. (We accept checks, credit cards, PayPal and cold-hard cash….)
To contribute by phone you can call Becky or Deva toll free at: 1-800-840-3683
Thank you for your support,
Jeffrey, Joshua, Becky, Deva, and Nathaniel
CounterPunch PO Box 228, Petrolia, CA 95558
Anderson, Dinh & Chaos
Black Friday: December 14, 2012
by KEMMER ANDERSON
Darkness shrouds the dead.
Gun-sight eyes shoot around the world:
A magazine of bullets reads through our minds.
An assassin needs no scope to find a victim
Or rope to hang a priest from Hitler’s scaffold.
You don’t have to check in to the Lorraine Motel to die.
The school for assassins plays at the movie theater
For an audience of random targets
Or in a classroom of children just learning to read.
This dance of death needs no partner,
Just a cradle for an assault weapon
To rifle our world into a horror beyond belief.
A chambered catharsis waits for the automatic squeeze
On the trigger to begin the scene. Hallucinating rage
Screams beyond the stage of a Greek tragedy.
Car bombs explode outside a school in Damascus.
Bullets cut through the flesh of first graders
In a Connecticut classroom. Teachers die
In this script spoken through the eyes of a gun barrel
Before they can read the mind who conceives such terror
In a country blasted by a liturgical fantasy for violence.
If the innocence of light flickers in the distance
Beyond this earth, can a candle alter reality?
A star guide new magi? What is left to write?
More death fugues? Block letters on a tombstone?
The ABC’s of gun control? The rite to bear arms?
Or 26 new obituaries for the town newspaper?
We are swallowed by an elegy of silence, searching
Notes for a requiem to columbines, stones, and children
Sung by an unknown choir digging for meaning.
Kemmer Anderson can be reached at email@example.com.
by LINH DINH
Shovel toothed, funky in profile,
I, John Dodo, am son of Camden.
Beneath boasting of a city invincible,
I’m two boarded up windows. I am a
Well-painted mural of kaput industries.
Who touches these, touches my void.
Once I shoveled coal, tamed pig iron,
Strung bridges. Erected. Now I strut
Up and down Broadway, dazed,
Fingering coins, aiming for chicken.
Pants low slung, crack peeping,
I’m son of Bethlehem. I peddle
Christmas mart, push Sands.
I patrol dying mall in Buffalo.
At dawn, in McArthur Park,
Los Angeles, I piss and scratch.
Legless, I buff Hollywood
Plaques, pose as monster
For tourists who undertip.
I push charity condoms, body oils,
High class looking purses, low class,
High definition porn, incense and sox.
Lying on news, ads and cardboard,
I browse, RECOVERY IS ON COURSE.
BUM SIGHTINGS DOWN. LATTE SALES UP.
BRITNEY SEEN IN ODD COLORED SHOES.
JUSTIN ALARMS FANS WITH FAKE HAIRCUT.
As I sleep, an asswipe sneaks
Photos, then gives me a buck.
Strung out, I will suck and fuck,
Excuse me, until I get my fix.
Like a cliché, I press nose
Against steak house glass.
Soon I will break that glass.
Linh Dinh is the author of two books of stories, five of poems, and a novel, Love Like Hate. He’s tracking our deteriorating socialscape through his frequently updated photo blog, State of the Union.
by ZORBA HASSIUM CHAOS
Cars hiss like stars
the pubic region dry
like the desert,
I, too am dry and uncertain,
praying for rain in a pantheon of dry gods,
recovering alcoholics all
writing quatrains like they’re
goddamn Nostradamus or something,
as if Orson Welles would come along
and narrate my life’s story
like I was some fucking genius
with a complex about the Canadians, but really
who am I kidding?
“Kid, you ain’t who you think you are.”
Zorba Hassium Chaos can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.
Editorial Note: (Please Read Closely Before Submitting)
Poets Basement is now on Facebook. Find us as http://www.facebook.com/poets.basement.
To submit to Poets Basement, send an e-mail to CounterPunch’s poetry editor, Marc Beaudin at email@example.com with your name, the titles being submitted, and your website url or e-mail address (if you’d like this to appear with your work). Also indicate whether or not your poems have been previously published and where. For translations, include poem in original language and documentation of granted reprint/translation rights. Attach up to 5 poems and a short bio, written in 3rd person, as a single Word Document (.doc or .rtf attachments only; no .docx – use “Save As” to change docx or odt files to “.doc”). Expect a response within two months (occasionally longer during periods of heavy submissions).
Poems accepted for online publication will be considered for possible inclusion of an upcoming print anthology.
For more details, tips and suggestions, visit http://crowvoice.com/poets-basement.