After some strong requests, I'm reposting this in its entirety with a new headline and intro paragraph after deleting the original diary. This truly is a must-read for everyone.
The following is a poem written by Cleveland playwright Sarah Morton, in response to Bush's 2006 State of the Union address. Sarah is a member of the Northeast Ohio Antiwar Coalition, and my fellow co-founder of Artists For Peace. Her poem is a vibrant and hauntingly beautiful take on the lies and deception conveyed by the Shrub on Tuesday. Please, read, recommend, and spread the word. Sarah has given me permission to reprint her poem, in its entirety, after the fold.
Crossposted at ePluribus Media
SOTU 2006
by Sarah Morton
I'm just so tired
of this re-run
George
giving orders
from his
cardboard compound
"hope"
and
"freedom"
falling
half- dead
from his
mouth
unfamiliar as Latin
the
walk-ons
in the colors
of Benetton
`the room's so white I gotta wear shades'
someone says,
and I laugh
because it used to be funny.
Or, at
least.
some of it did.
Remember the color coded
days of the week?
His half assed
attempts at
grammar?
Now
all I can manage
are
dry hiccups
for nostalgia's
sake
a laughter Xerox
Now
no matter
how many times
I divide
and subdivide
history
the story remains the same:
One
Long
Smug
Dynasty
One
Long
Bleating
Info-mercial
Death with a juicer thrown in
Remember
when we didn't get headaches
from the sheer effort of dreaming?
Remember Y2K?
Keeping water in the basement
for emergencies,
not
because
we might-
fuck it-
decide to
drown ourselves
one day?
Or maybe that's just me.
The applause
rises
(like
the tide
that won't be
mentioned)
The crowd
hoists
itself
upwards
and
George
waits.
The camera
pans
to a
mother, father, wife
of
a fallen
soldier
They stand,
wobbly as newborn ghosts,
put their hands over their hearts,
then
quickly
drop them,
as if they've made
a dinner party gaffe
(no one else is
checking
for a heartbeat)
The wife
closes her eyes,
maybe waiting
for the applause
to work
its magic,
salve the wounds
or-
better-
bring him back
like Tinkerbell.
(Clap if you believe !)
George looks at her
and
something
crosses his face
like a shadow
a blip that half- looks like
recognition
then
he turns
back to the prompter,
bunnyfast
jumps back
on his heels
and winks
like a game show host
to a contestant
whose hands
keep
coming up
empty.
Written by Sarah Morton, ©2006 Reprinted by permission. Contact the author here.