SOME PERSONAL THOUGHTS ON THE EVE OF THE IDES OF MARCH
by Andrew Williams

It recently occured to me that this month marks the first anniversary of
my first column/rant/op-ed/whathaveyou for
crispinsartwell.com. Now, I'm not really much for anniversaries, but my
association with Crispin and his fellow opinionaters has been a warm and
satisfying one. Unless you're a writer, you don't know what a luxury it
can be to have an editor who doesn't piss on your copy and then expect you
to love the thalidomide-spawned spavined result. an editor who lets your
words stand or fall on their own merits is the rarest of all avi. So this
is a special: instead of an essay, a full-length bit of poesy on situation
current. No title, just some thoughts.

"Do what needs doing, and then only what you feel like doing."--John
Brunner

Street preacher, spitting out verses
in unconnected silence,
singing to the Lord
in stuttering rhythms and rhymes.
What new Jerusalem does he promulgate?
What hope of salvation does he proselytize?
I try to filter out the signal
from the noise, but it's hopeless,
like back in the days
trying to tune in a ball game
from the West Coast on transistor.
AM or FM, his frequency keeps wavering
So who could he be saving?
Meanwhile, back on the bus--
the endless waiting for departure,
the suspense of the unexpected take-off
the wannabe rappers
pulling out their favorite lines and rhymes
from the sounds pouring into their ears
making us their unwilling audience
when all we want is silence
and a little time to breathe.
And we're off! past micro-
forests and business offices
empty of cars and people,
past the neon steeples
of restaurants, bars and stores--
give 'em money and they're yours--
Suburban sprawl ain't smart:
it's just the maws
of developers gobbling up
all the land that used to be
made for you and me
before Uncle Sam started selling it off
by the square yard
for pennies on the dollar
makes me wanna holler
throw up my hands
but who would hear or see
over the roars of our machines
in the land of the used to be free?
But I do it anyway
when the spirit moves me
because somebody
has to talk back,
somebody has to be
rude and noisy
to the psychopathic personalities
who think they're in charge
from the dictator-elect on down--
the Clown Prince of Amerika
baptized by his daddy
scion of Nazi lovers
and crack suppliers
the rapers and pillagers
who see dollar signs
where we see trees
So how many minutes left 'til midnight?
Has the fat lady gotten her cue?
But the show must go on
We march on silent offices
We speak to absent ears
We register our voices
We show our faces
to those who won't
show us theirs.
Yes, the show must go on--
on freezing feet and weary souls,
on lambent hopes of peace.
In the face of war dis-ease,
the medium is a mess
and we do our damndest
to separate the bull
from the shit
without pay or praise
but guarantees of hardship
And we'll keep marching,
laughing, singing, loving,
crying, fucking and dying
'till the cows come home
'till the rivers run dry
'till the Sun falls from the sky
'till life on Earth is through
because this is how we do
because here we stand--
we can't do otherwise