 |
 |
 PREVIOUS NEXT 
THE INJURY WE CAN WEATHER
The insulting poetry won't be borne
The terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001 were unarguably abominable. As a result of the plane crashes and the continuing anthrax outbreaks, the nation is experiencing a heretofore unknown dread.
Yet these national injuries in no way justify the ongoing insults we are enduring in the form of endless electronic spam which has, from the beginning of this crisis, taken the form of mediocre, saccharine, sentimental claptrap. I don't mind the Photoshop-inspired visual jokes — like the guy on top of the Trade Center towers grinning for the camera with an airliner coming at him from behind. Or the parody of that same picture where he is posing in front of an exploding Hindenburg. I welcome a good joke in the face of tragedy. (Although the one about kidnapping Osama bin Laden, performing a sex change and returning him to Afghanistan, has really lost it's one note appeal.)
The onslaught of messages, forwarded to me by people I had once thought of as friends, urging me to hug my loved-ones, praise God for being alive or to swathe myself and my belongings in red, white and blue bunting, are working my last nerve. I understand that even rational people can act in inexplicable ways when in shock. Perhaps these folks think themselves well-meaning by jamming the in-boxes of everyone on their mailing lists with heartfelt poppycock. However,
there is nothing well-meaning or justifiable about the egregious assault of atrocious, Hallmark-esque poetry which has ensued since the Trade Center collapsed.
Not since Quincy Jones unleashed "We Are the World," on a group of already suffering Africans has a people under siege had to endure such harrowing sentiment. (That is if you don't count Elton's John's Princess Diane epitaph, the rewrite of "Candle in the Wind.") I have received several dreadful forwarded poems, written by faceless, would-be writers, during the past month. But the one that came in my e-mail last week, disguised as an innocent note from a chum, is more objectionable than paying $35 for the new, hand-painted, collectible one dollar coin.
In an attempt to achieve balance and add a hint of healthy skepticism back into the national conversation, I have asked my friends to weigh in on this poem by adding stanzas they find meaningful. I ask the "unknown" author of "Rest in Peace," with the same gravitas with which they wrote this plodding tome: Haven't we suffered enough? We have the choice, America. Please, let the electronic terrorism end with you.
Here is the poem. Don't worry if you can't get through it. Though it is unintentionally hilarious in many instances, there is no need to force your way through this interminable tripe. Just read a couple of stanzas to get the feel for it, and then hurry on to the additions submitted by my pals.
This is a poem sent by a friend to me, I am forwarding it to you, my friends, the author is unknown.....
REST IN PEACE
I am a World Trade Center tower, standing tall in the clear blue sky, feeling a violent blow in my side, and I am a towering inferno of pain and suffering imploding upon myself and collapsing to the ground.
May I rest in peace.
I am a terrified passenger on a hijacked airplane not knowing where we are going or that I am riding on fuel tanks that will be instruments of death, and I am a worker arriving at my office not knowing that in just a moment my future will be obliterated.
May I rest in peace.
I am a pigeon in the plaza between the two towers eating crumbs from someone's breakfast when fire rains down on me from the skies, and I am a bed of flowers admired daily by thousands of tourists now buried under five stories of rubble.
May I rest in peace.
I am a firefighter sent into dark corridors of smoke and debris on a mission of mercy only to have it collapse around me, and I am a rescue worker risking my life to save lives who is very aware that I may not make it out alive.
May I rest in peace.
I am a survivor who has fled down the stairs and out of the building to safety who knows that nothing will ever be the same in my soul again, and I am a doctor in a hospital treating patients burned from head to toe who knows that these horrible images will remain in my mind forever.
May I know peace.
I am a tourist in Times Square looking up at the giant TV screens thinking I'm seeing a disaster movie as I watch the Twin Towers crash to the ground, and I am a New York woman sending e-mails to friends and family letting them know that I am safe.
May I know peace.
I am a piece of paper that was on someone's desk this morning and now I'm debris scattered by the wind across lower Manhattan, and I am a stone in the graveyard at Trinity Church covered with soot from the buildings that once stood proudly above me, death meeting death.
May I rest in peace.
I am a dog sniffing in the rubble for signs of life, doing my best to be of service, and I am a blood donor waiting in line to make a simple but very needed contribution for the victims.
May I know peace.
I am a resident in an apartment in downtown New York who has been forced to evacuate my home, and I am a resident in an apartment uptown who has walked 100 blocks home in a stream of other refugees.
May I know peace.
I am a family member who has just learned that someone I love has died, and I am a pastor who must comfort someone who has suffered a heart-breaking loss.
May I know peace.
I am a loyal American who feels violated and vows to stand behind any military action it takes to wipe terrorists off the face of the earth, and I am a loyal American who feels violated and worries that people who look and sound like me are all going to be blamed for this tragedy.
May I know peace.
I am a frightened city dweller who wonders whether I'll ever feel safe in a skyscraper again, and I am a pilot who wonders whether there will ever be a way to make the skies truly safe.
May I know peace.
I am the owner of a small store with five employees that has been put out of business by this tragedy, and I am an executive in a multinational corporation who is concerned about the cost of doing business in a terrorized world.
May I know peace.
I am a visitor to New York City who purchases postcards of the World Trade Center Twin Towers that are no more, and I am a television reporter trying to put into words the terrible things I have seen.
May I know peace.
I am a boy in New Jersey waiting for a father who will never come home, and I am a boy in a faraway country rejoicing in the streets of my village because someone has hurt the hated Americans.
May I know peace.
I am a general talking into the microphones about how we must stop the terrorist cowards who have perpetrated this heinous crime, and I am an intelligence officer trying to discern how such a thing could have happened on American soil, and I am a city official trying to find ways to alleviate the suffering of my people.
May I know peace.
I am a terrorist whose hatred for America knows no limit and I am willing to die to prove it, and I am a terrorist sympathizer standing with all the enemies of American capitalism and imperialism, and I am a master strategist for a terrorist group who planned this abomination. My heart is not yet capable of openness, tolerance, and loving.
May I know peace.
I am a citizen of the world glued to my television set, fighting back my rage and despair at these horrible events, and I am a person of faith struggling to forgive the unforgivable, praying for the consolation of those who have lost loved ones, calling upon the mercifull beneficence of God/Yahweh/Allah/Spirit/Higher Power.
May I know peace.
I am a child of God who believes that we are all children of God and we are all part of each other.
May we all know peace
HERE ARE THE ADDITIONAL STANZAS:
(Please submit any new ones if you are so inspired.)
Doreen O., Coolidge, AZ
I am the sorry son-of-a-bitch who happened to be washing the windows on the 105th floor of the WTC when a 767 flew up my ass taking me for a ride on its handlebars through 16 offices, two executive wash rooms and the pastry case of the cappuccino joint by the west stairs. I am now not only blown all to hell, but I also have lost my squeegee and if I could find just one piece of terrorist heiny big enough to put a boot through I could rest in peace.
Julene S., San Diego, CA
I am an unemployed dot-com casualty, wallowing in my own bouts of self-pity and self-loathing in between applying for dull-sounding jobs that I am over- qualified for and don't want, and I am still unable to keep the house clean and I still find grocery shopping ineffably dull so there is no food in the messy house that I by all rights should be whipping into shape. May I rest in peace, or at least get off my lazy ass and organize these files at least, for Godsake.
Michael R., Bremerton, WA
I am America living peacefully, using more energy than any other the world over. I believe in freedom, such as the freedom of my corporations to rape your lands in order to maintain my wealth, power and destructive life style. I believe in democracy, as long as it doesn't attempt to shift the balance of power in any meaningful way. I believe in truth, my rationalized myopic truth of course. I live by a code of law and justice; the laws I wish to follow and all the justice that money can buy. All I want to do is live in peace with the rest of the world, as long as you do as I ask. I walk softly, but carry a BIG stick and am willing to use it! So, don't cross me or I'll squash you into peace.
Jenna E., Easthampton, MA
wow, that poem is really pretty amazing. i mean i think it's amazing, genuinely. to pack every single phrase with such an unflaggingly potent blend of corniness, unselfconscious jingoism, mealymouthed religious sentiment, clueless pomposity, and the unintentionally hilarious--"i am a pigeon eating the crumbs of someone's breakfast!"---!!!!!!--and to go on for so many stanzas without colliding with a sense of irony even by *accident* is no mean feat.
i hate to say it, but i really feel it is beyond satire. kind of like george w. he would *totally* love the part about the dog "doing its best" by sniffing through the rubble.
Neal B., New Orleans, LA
I am a Michael Bolton CD spinning furiously in the original author's stereo, not knowing why she insists on playing me over and over again. Or why I was chosen to have a horse-maned singer with marginal talent ruin my existence? Would Bananarama have been too much to ask? And what luck to end up in Ohio, where I fear for my safety daily since September 11.
May I rest in peace.
Kim W., Brooklyn, NY
I'll see your poem and raise you two.
Heres a Dr. Seuss uplifter.
I couldn't even get all the way through it.
(Again, don't read this if you have a weak digestion.)
Every U down in Uville liked U.S. a lot,
But the Binch, who lived Far East of Uville, did not.
The Binch hated US! the whole US way!
Now don't ask me why, for nobody can say,
It could be his turban was screwed on too tight.
Or the sun from the desert had beaten too bright
But I think that the most likely reason of all
May have been that his heart was two sizes too small.
But, Whatever the reason, his heart or his turban,
He stood facing Uville, the part that was urban.
"They're doing their business," he snarled from his perch.
"They're raising their families! They're going to church!
They're leading the world, and their empire is thriving,
I MUST keep the S's and U's from surviving!"
Tomorrow, he knew, all the U's and the S's,
Would put on their pants and their shirts and their dresses,
They'd go to their offices, playgrounds and schools,
And abide by their U and S values and rules,
And then they'd do something he liked least of all,
Every U down in U-ville, the tall and the small,
Would stand all united, each U and each S,
And they'd sing Uville's anthem, "God bless us! God bless!"
All around their Twin Towers of Uville, they'd stand,
and their voices would drown every sound in the land.
"I must stop that singing," Binch said with a smirk,
And he had an idea — am idea that might work!
The Binch stole some U airplanes in U morning hours,
And crashed them right into the Uville Twin Towers.
"They'll wake to disaster!" he snickered, so sour,
"And how can they sing when they can't find a tower?"
The Binch cocked his ear as they woke from their sleeping,
All set to enjoy their U-wailing and weeping,
Instead he heard something that started quite low,
And it built up quite slow, but it started to grow--
And the Binch heard the most unpredictable thing...
And he couldn't believe it — they started to sing!
He stared down at U-ville, not trusting his eyes,
What he saw was a shocking, disgusting surprise!
Every U down in U-ville, the tall and the small,
Was singing! Without any towers at all!
He HADN'T stopped U-Ville from singing! It sung!
For down deep in the hearts of the old and the young,
Those Twin Towers were standing, called Hope and called Pride,
And you can't smash the towers we hold deep inside.
So we circle the sites where our heroes did fall,
With a hand in each hand of the tall and the small,
And we mourn for our losses while knowing we'll cope,
For we still have inside that U-Pride and U-Hope.
For America means a bit more than tall towers,
It means more than wealth or political powers,
It's more than our enemies ever could guess,
So may God bless America! Bless us! God bless!
NEXT MONTH: Post-terrorism limericks.
WITCHING HOUR ARCHIVE:
CURRENT -2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10-11-12-13-14-15-16-17
|
|
 American auto makers, in an attempt to stimulate our dismal
economy, are offering no-interest loans on a variety of new cars. While this is, not sinister in itself, I am still bothered by the fact that the cars most Americans prefer are those, gas guzzling, toxic emission spewing, roll-over wonders, the SUVs.
A friend of mine who is looking for a new car told me that the new Saturn SUV, which she covets, gets an incredible 30 miles to the
gallon! I'll admit that this is a better number than what the behemoth Ford Expedition can brag about. However, I am still troubled that cars were getting that kind of mileage during the '70s oil crisis, when Jimmy Carter was in office.
For a short time after the gas lines disappeared US auto makers seemed interested in providing transportation that used less fossil fuel. But once we got big-business Republican president, America re-
newed it's love affair with power cars and has not looked back since.
It seems to me that, by now, cars should routinely be getting twice the mileage they got in 1976. Getting the same mileage, when lucky, in our most popular vehicles, which have proven themselves
to be hugely polluting road hazards, is clearly not progress.
Yet, with a government headed by two men who cut their teeth in the oil industry, the chances of goverment-mandated mileage standards being stepped-up is probably unrealistic — despite G.W. Bush's recent statements
about the nation's need to become less dependent on Middle Eastern oil sources. I am afraid that this is just a justification for more domestic drilling (in the Alaskan wilderness) and not a sign that he believes in conservation. Perhaps, as G.W. himself would say, I am "misunderestimating" him. But I have my doubts.
|
|
