Carl Sandburg on Rod Blagojevich

The Road and The End

To a Contemporary Bunkshooter

You come along squirting words at us, shaking your fist
and calling us all damn fools so fierce the froth slobbers
over your lips… always blabbing we’re all
going to hell straight off and you know all about it.

Ready to Kill

Ten minutes now I have been looking at this.
I have gone by here before and wondered about it.

Muckers

The muckers work on… pausing… to pull
Their boots out of suckholes where they slosh.

The Has-Been

The boy laughs and goes whistling “ee-ee-ee ee-ee-ee.”
The stone face stands silent, seeming to clutch a
secret.

Dynamiter

His name was in many newspapers as an enemy of the
nation and few keepers of churches or schools would
open their doors to him.

After impeachment, Blagojevich quotes poetry [Raw Story]

Carl Sandburg Chicago Poems

6 Comments

Hair, dark brown and strange
Inhuman in shape and bounce
Protects him from facts

There is a long tradition of epic Serbian poetry, usually celebrating glorious defeats at the hands of Turks, or more recently western Europe. So I think he really wanted to quote this one:

“I’m afraid that there will be a brawl.
And if really there will be a brawl,
Woe to one who is next to MarkoRod!”

Holy God, nojo: I thought of doing a poetry post on this PRECISELY LIKE THIS ONE on the cabride home from the airport last night. (Yeah, I was out of town on this most wondrous of days.) Was going to call it Blagowinkle’s Corner.

Parachute me there!
This thing is bleeping golden–
Not a giveaway.

Incidentally, Rod Blagojevich went hunting a while back, with a shiny new shotgun and new all-weather gear from Bass Pro Shops (with the pricetags still on, naturally). First time lucky — he showed off the albatross at the post-hunt press conference.

Turning and turning at the Thompson Center,
The Blago cannot hear the impeacher;
Things fall apart; the center fucking sucks;
Mere anarchy loosed upon Illinois,
The rage-choked tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is fucked;
The best seek a conviction, while the worst
Are full of fucking intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Bleeping is at hand.
The Second Bleeping! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Dan Rostenkowski
Troubles my sight: somewhere in drifts of Ravenswood
A shape with bad hairdo and the head of a Cub,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the snow,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant Tribune scribes.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking L train,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Wrigleyville to be born?

(Wm. Bleeping Yeats)

Bravo! I bow before the poetic skilz of both of you, Nojo and CB.

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