Casino
by FRED GARDNER
old
pharaoh built a wall
so highwide and so strongtall
it would forever never fall
but they all come tumbling down
recall:
up to the walls of jericho
he marched with spear in hand
go blow those rams’horns joshua cried
to the satchmos in his band
then
the shofar section began to wail
drums to boomboomboom
backup singers began to shout
from krakow to khartoum
warning
you cant build it long enough
you cant build it strong enough
when your goal is hoarding stuff
the walls come tumbling down
whizard
macnamara’s d m z
fenciful’lectricity
with motion detectnology
it all came tumbling down
vietminh
sandals slender pedals push
shshing in pyjama black
neath the jungle canopy
down the nighttime track
upto
the eternal embassy
reedy flutes to blow
cementblocks commenced to dance
to tunes from uncle ho
singing
you cant build it long enough
you cant build it strong enough
when it’s just to whored your stuff
the walls come tumbling down
lord
rockebremer greenzone ruled
amana’d from the heat
afraid to buy a lambkebab
from courage down the street
achtung
the firingsquad lines up at dawn
the blindfold sees through fear
the orders come from pitboss lips
to bebi’s pitbull ear
but
grieving cousins rise from prayer
and payback bombs explode
a café smolders on the square
checkpoints mate the road
while
back west “the people’s house”
gets “permanently” locked
and pennsylvania avenue
gets “permanently” blocked
and yet
you cant build it long enough
you cant build it strong enough
if the soulgoal is owning stuff
the walls come tumbling down
so
barricade your aridzona
all southtexas too
through the sea of tijuana
declare no brown gets through
ha:)
history rock-n-rolls along
the right-on cause turns might then wrong
from berlin unto mountzion
the walls come tumbling down
and though
memory fades bit by bit
whoso jewish could forget
the punchline of their first big hit?
“the walls came tumbling down!”
chorus:
joshua f’t the battle of jericho
jericho jericho
joshua fi’t the battle of jericho
AND THE WALLS CAME TUMBLING DOWN!
Fred Gardner can be reached at plebesite.com. He edits O’Shaughnessy’s, the journal of cannabis in clinical practice.
The Think Tank Song
by MICHAEL SILVERSTEIN
For many long years I felt ineffectual
A misunderstood and ignored intellectual
My theories (though brilliant) were hooted and hissed
By colleagues and others their value dismissed.
But still I did labor to make them more statable
In hopes that one day they’d become more debatable
And those that opposed them for reasons nefarious
Would meet a just fate that was most deleterious.
In the tank, in the tank, in my Beltway think tank
Part campus, part book barn, part nut house, part bank.
It’s true a great thinker on great ideas thrives
But it’s also quite true that we have private lives
To best change perceptions and settle old scores
We need the support of big buck sinecures.
The best thinking’s done on a surfeit of calories
And tends to improve in tandem with salaries
This linkage ain’t found in a staid university
Not to mention such places’ diverting diversity.
In the tank, in the tank, in my Beltway think tank
Part campus, part book barn, part nut house, part bank.
It was only by chance that I found my true nesting
The place in my heart I had always been questing
I’d published a screed, arcane and voluminous
So riddled with bile, some tagged it bituminous.
It seemed for a time to attract no attention
Except the occasional snide condescension
Until came that call from a hunter of heads
Who asked if I’d ever considered Op Eds.
In the tank, in the tank, in my Beltway think tank
Part campus, part book barn, part nut house, part bank.
I’d always deemed Op Eds a medium trivial
So compact one’s points couldn’t be unequivial
Yet write one I did, laced with fury and gumption
Too high-brow (I figured) for pop press consumption.
But turn up it did, on a blatt’s viewpoints page
Where it went on to garner both pro and con rage
My head hunter pitched it to tanks with fat coffers
And got back a slew of paid thinker job offers.
In the tank, in the tank, in my Beltway think tank
Part campus, part book barn, part nut house, part bank.
I now have a slot as cushy as jello
I’m called a researcher and visiting fellow
I analyze trends, write books in a gush
All published before being pulped into slush
On TV they love me on talking head junction
A chicken and peas night is my fav’rite function
At fund-raising meets, rich egos I lather
With partisan factoids and scholarly blather.
In the tank, in the tank, in my Beltway think tank
Part campus, part book barn, part nut house, part bank.
I longed for a place where they pay by the syllable
Where spewing odd visions and ideas is billable
Where the kinkiest, crankiest, odd scheme devisors
Can train to become presidential advisors.
A shadowy power most people don’t see
It now wield by thinkers-for-hire like me
My nostrums are slick, and my come backs are rapid
Just perfect for pols whose own brains have gone vapid.
In the tank, in the tank, in my Beltway think tank
Part campus
Part book barn
Part nut house
Part bank.
Michael Silverstein blogs at http://wallstreetpoet.com.
For Whom the Bell Never Tolled
by CHARLES ORLOSKI
Not present at Gethsemane,
John Harter remembered Baltimore Catechism,
imagined the weary old Lord blinked
when soldiers arrived, and after sulfur kisses,
he was told to move on, understanding
they had other housing plans for him,
On a hot afternoon, Harter completed
an inspection tour of Muncy S.C.I.,
a place for bad women.
He recalled Route 118’s windy road –
Harter saw tree & animal ethnic cleansing
wrought by Hurricane Irene’s wind.
An ancient oak leaned on cable wires,
a bear cub crossed a road in fear,
it did not seem to understand
it had natural gas in its eyes.
At S.C.I., Harter inspected fuel tanks,
facility fire extinguishing equipment –
As Haz-Mat Specialist, it was John’s duty
to identify potential danger, diesel spills,
chlorine leaks at Wastewater Treatment,
maybe an inmate gone mad,
an angry woman with a knife, guards too late,
blood-covered cafeteria, a severed hand lay
on a plate, Cindy McKinney shackled,
moved into a place of tighter security.
Sanguine –
facility & grounds inspection completed.
Harter assured Safety Supervisor Welsh
he saw it all, he saw everything that could possibly
harm S.C.I.’s environment.
Everything fine, prisoners walked behind barb-wire,
Harter waved goodbye to a haggard old lifer
searching for either Jesus or a carbine
which could set her free to die.
In the wild, a bear cub roamed damaged woods,
it heard a gored pheasant scream in tangled bush,
Harter’s cell phone rang, a Cherokee ring-tone,
& John listened to ailing wife Ann’s bad news –
“Landlord’s divorced daughter come home from NYC,
plans to move into our rented double…
we must be gone by Thanksgiving, John.” said Ann.
Where John goes, no one knows –
fourth move in four years, “four more years!”
Harter had no place to lay his head.
He implored Crazy Horse’s help,
petitioned McKinney’s Guardian Angel,
& John shook hands with Mr. Welsh,
returned home insane with fear.
On Route 118, eight mile from Hughesville line,
he saw a detachment of Roman soldiers, 9/11/’11,
they marched a bear cub across a natural gas well-pad.
Harter noticed the thirsty cub tug toward a river,
a place it called home, childhood in Ricketts Glen.
Incarcerated, Jesus heard S.C.I. guards
speak about Jordan River’s sand-bagged shore,
noticed dangerous leaks in black-stone walls,
and a Kapo gave him raw chicken legs.
Jesus saw Harter approach Trinityville Bridge,
washed-out by flooding.
Yellow detour sign indicated he must turn back –
shall he take a leap into swollen water,
take an alternate way home to temporary home?
Animals and trees mourned twister winds,
S.C.I.’s beds were warm, & John Harter understood
how even God got eviction notices, shit-on-shingles.
Charles Orloski at present lives in Taylor, Pennsylvania. He can be reached at CCDJorlov@aol.com.
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