Poetry in Dry Places
Hollow canned soundbites nibble at the nether distance of the bedroom.
I find it hard to take it seriously; the southern twangs of the healthcare debate.
"I don't think Speaker Pelosi's going to do that but if she did it would be a direct slap to the Democrats ... I don't see the bill being there to get enough votes on the floor."
The arcane language of power yawns from C-Span and takes on a life of its own like the drool that oozes from the jaws of a sick old dog. I can hardly bear to raise a heavy eyelid to watch.
"Doctor Gingrich has some amendments on that."
When did he become a doctor? I wouldn't let him operate on me. He's done enough damage to my brain already.
"My mother is in her 70s. She could not have gotten that knee operation that changed her life under this bill."
Oh - and there's a specific provision that mentions your mother? The below provisions exempt Mrs. Patty Bumpus of Little Rock, Arkansas.
"It may be we can sit on Saturday and move to Monday 3, and Tuesday 4 if necessary."
Or out of here altogether. Does anyone look out of the windows over the lawns and suggest going out instead for a picnic? Let's have Pims and at least we can slap the Democrats on the grass instead of the floor.
"Well over 100 amendments have been filed ... If the process had moved more quickly and we had allowed for some of the free market processs and cost control principles."
After paying $4 for a packet of rice crackers at FarmFresh I could use an injection of free market principles and cost control.
I could also use the off switch, if I hadn't lost the remote control. As the debate meanders on my soul is saved by an anthology of poetry.
Did Dylan Thomas care about heathcare as he careered over the insane cliffs of Wales, high on spirits both liquid and literary, back to his boat house?
And what would I give for someone to throw open the windows of Congress during the minutiae of the debate and let in the words of the great poet like a flood of salty estuary water in this driest of places.
In the mutardseed sun/By full tilt river and switchback sea/Where the cormorants scud/In his house on stilts high among beaks/And palavers of birds/This sandgrain day in the bent bay's grave/He celebrates and spurns/His driftwood thirty-fifth wind turned age/Herons spire and spear.