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
Davies and Orloski
Uncle George and the Woods
by ROBERT A. DAVIES
Under a canvas
slung over a pole
I lie in my sleeping bag
looking at the world below.
Suddenly I see a shadow
just beyond the cliff
I’m camping on,
high up in an oak.
How long has he been watching?
We greet each other.
He has shown me Cassiopeia
identified many plants,
he too at home in the trees.
I wish I could greet him now
prominent among the ghosts
of those whom I haven’t thanked.
Thank you, “Uncle George”
uncle to countless scouts.
I find the woods welcoming
whether in them, or as now
picturing myself in them.
Driving to Timber, Oregon
by ROBERT A. DAVIES
After the fields of red clover
set against green and blue
my acre of trees will be no less a pleasure.
The big Douglas firs —
all over Timber the residents
are cutting trees that shelter their houses.
Next, the houses themselves!
Winters are wet and cold and long
jobs scarcer than ever,
there’s no CCC to return.
Roads are smoke filled, the town
naked as sheared beefalo.
What happens when trees in the yard are gone?
Of course there are plenty of trees
they just aren’t legal, though dawn
might usher in another what’s-theirs.
Robert A. Davies is the author of Timber and, more recently Bluff Hollow. He can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.
Kadavergehorsam in the Land of Opportunity *
by CHARLES ORLOSKI
Come, come Angel of Death,
please visit my rented-room, let us talk?
a University of Scranton graduate,
I planned marriage, children,
building prosperous future working
for Taylor Borough’s Amity Lumber Co.,
and Municipal Waste Landfill,
at $7.25 an hour.
Daily, I watched garbage trucks enter
upon the landfill’s State Certified scale,
where total garbage tonnage was calculated,
municipal waste processed for proper burial,
and lots of “Green” fell into Amity family coffers.
Angel of Death,
please help me remember here?
Was it Saint Thomas Sunday
when Amity family approached,
asked me to speak at a Taylor Council meeting,
provide persuasive argument why residents
should consent to landfill expansion plans,
come within 200 feet of people’s backyards,
in vicinity of kid’s swing-sets, bird baths,
elderly hammocks, vegetable gardens.
Angel of Death, I’m sure you heard many
muddled tales like mine, so please don’t go?
I want to make confession,
and undergo America’s favored purification act,
become, “accountable for actions,”
before you come along, and account for me.
That anticipated night,
at Taylor Borough Council meeting,
I rose, stood confidently at podium,
told residents how unwise for them
to protest Amity Landfill expansion.
With Letterman charm, I asked,
What mattered foul garbage odors, rodents,
potential ground water quality threats,
daily noise from dump-trailer
and “haul-pack” heavy burial equipment?
Talking DOWN to crowded assembly,
including friends played and grown-up with,
I explained how Taylor needed “good jobs,”
and guaranteed how veto of Amity Landfill
expansion would forever stymie T-town’s economy.
Angel of Death, I am sure you understand
how I needed to secure prosperous future,
and while doing my duty for Amity family,
I emphasized financial benefits of having
Municipal Waste Landfills built
in post-anthracite coal hometowns.
Chided assembly, called to mind “N.I.MB.Y.,”
I cynically remarked how no one wants
prisons and heroin-addict rehabilitation centers
located in neighborhoods.
“And until the Federal government invents better
Final Household Waste Disposal Solutions,
Taylor’s garbage must go somewhere,”
Angel of Death…,
upon speech conclusion, a hullabaloo,
comic annihilation of my purported
“eloquence,” compromised testimony.
Afterward, hot September night,
angry Taylor citizens waited upon my exit,
owner of local barbershop threw me the finger.
Alarmed, I hurried to car’s sanctuary.
And now, Angel of Death,
as I approach hour of flesh-bone demise,
and while there’s still time to confess
before becoming just another “obedient corpse,”
lowered into an E.P.A. approved grave,
including double-lined abyss,
State-of-Art methane collection system,
at age 62, I want you to know
that its terrible to have learned
all the loyal “duty” Adolf Eichmann did,
all for upwardly mobile career advancement.
And in comparison, Dear Angel,
I ask you to internalize how easy
OBEDIENCE once was for me
to a Municipal Waste landfill owner’s
will and revenue goals.
and prior to application for “final dirt cover”
upon all that one (like me) must leave behind, 1.
I must keep hope your C.E.O. understands
where I have been – through arbeit darkness
did I tread for decades, not blind,
just banal 20/20 vision.
* A German word meaning “obedience of corpses” found in Hannah Arendt’s “Eichmann in Jerusalem: A report on the Banality of Evil.” Arendt explained how Adolf Eichmann, as a law-abiding citizen, “consistently acted upon orders – always so careful to be “covered – he became completely muddled, and ended by stressing alternately the virtues and vices of blind obedience, or Kadavergehorsam, or the “obedience of corpses.”
This line sneakily appropriated from the mouth of Bono’s band U-2, song titled, “All that you can’t leave behind.”
Charles Orloski lives in Taylor, PA. He can be reached at email@example.com.
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 firstname.lastname@example.org 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. Expect a response within two months (occasionally longer during periods of heavy submissions). Submissions not following the guidelines may or may not receive a response.
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. Thanks!