Stevieslaw: Bert the Turtle

Stevieslaw: Bert the Turtle

Those of us of a certain age remember “Duck and Cover.” In my case, I learned it at PS 165, in the Brownsville section of Brooklyn, NY—less than ten miles from a projected ground zero. We regularly practiced the art of diving under our desks and covering our heads, so we would be prepared when the air raid sirens announced an imminent nuclear attack from Russia. My childhood included subway stations that doubled as fall-out shelters, clearly labeled by black and yellow radiation symbols that dated back to WWII. The shelters, we were told, were packed with bottled water and government surplus cheddar cheese. My friends and I all expected nuclear war to happen (as it almost did, once or twice) and we grew up with a certain fear, that I believe we carried with us our entire lives. We were the “duck and cover” era in the same way that our parents were the “depression era.”.

You will be pleased to know then that the original “Duck and Cover,” civil defense film, first aired in 1951 and featuring an adorable Bert the Turtle is still available on line. With Vladimir Putin and Donald Trump already talking trash about increasing the strength and number of nuclear weapons, it may be a suitable film to share with our loved ones over the Holiday Season. And, perhaps The Donald, himself a child of New York in the 50’s, should spend some time watching the 9 minute film and reliving his childhood “duck and covers.” He might even Tweet about it.

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Stevieslaw: Cabin Fever

Cabin Fever

Smokey, that old gray cat
with the disposition
of my grandma Vlad,
is buried in the backyard
in an old shoe box
meant for high tops.
She lived to seventeen—
a grand old age for cats,
and by the time she passed,
had bitten every man, woman and child
in a four block radius
and driven to extinction
the rodents and the songbirds.

Some of us are not built for life indoors.
For those trekkers on the Appalachian Trail
or up in the mountains of Kathmandu
a day inside is like an itch
they cannot scratch.
Smokey was an outdoor cat
kept in—she leapt once
from a second story window,
rather than face a carpeted hour
by the fire.
She had no fear of winter,
and loved to watch it snow.

Today, as I surveyed
the year’s first snow,
I remembered her ritual.
She’d sit in the front window
and stare as flakes
coated the grass and walk,
and then, as if driven
by a cattish brilliance,
she’d go and check the back.

Here, in the center
of Central Pennsylvania,
our world like hers
constricts in winter.
The front and the back
of our old house inch together—
surreptitiously,
in the gray gloom of our
foreshortened days,
until our fevered eyes
would have us scream—
“Let me out, let me out,”
to run free in the falling snow.

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Stevieslaw: why aren’t you digging?

Stevieslaw: why aren’t you digging?

Of course your remember Rick Perry. Once upon the time, he ran for President and when the American people decided pretty unanimously that the guy was “dumb as a rock,” Ricky responded by finding a pair of glasses that made him look smart and presidential, at a “second pair is free event” at Wise Eyes in Dallas.

Of course you remember Rick. He’s the guy who couldn’t remember the name of the agency (energy) he wanted to eliminate. Oh, and he’s the guy who said the shooting of nine black parishioners at a Church in S. Carolina was “an accident.” His campaign claimed he couldn’t be held responsible for either of those statements, as they were made before he got his “smart glasses.”

We, at Stevieslaw, are taking a break from digging out the foundation for our fall out shelter, just for the time it takes to remind everyone that Rick will, when he takes over at the Department of Energy, be responsible for the maintenance and modernization of our nuclear weapons—roughly 7100 warheads—more than more than enough to end human life as we know it, and to ask as kindly as we know how, “Why Aren’t You Digging?”

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Stevieslaw: The Way We Are Now

The Way We Are Now

My neighbor, Mike,
will build a fence this spring.
I watch as landscapers
pace the boundary
between our quarter acres,
penciling distances
and slopes, in hope
of a winning bid.

Frost wrote, “Good fences
make good neighbours,”
but neither Mike nor I
keep cows–
and I am pleased
when his old dog Mutt
comes to call,
expecting as his due
a belly rub and bacon.

Mike and I
have shared this line
for more than thirty years.
With our children—
close as cousins,
grown and gone,
he has taken to the iris
as I have taken to the rose.
By mid-spring the view
across our yards
“could make the centerfold
of Gardening News,”
he’d say with a chuckle,
when we two still spoke.

The fence will cost us hours of light
and with our curse of clay and climate,
we may well lose the iris and the rose.
I fear next spring I’ll mourn along the fence line,
and wonder how we came to be,
two gardeners who cannot even talk about the weather.

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Stevieslaw: DNC to open office in Moscow

Stevieslaw: Democratic National Committee to Open Office in Moscow

With the CIA, the NSA, both houses of Congress and anyone with an IQ over 8 agreeing that the Russians hacked the 2016 Presidential Election to assure Donald Trump’s victory, the Democratic National Committee is finally taking action. Said spokesperson, Iris Cyrillic, “we will be renting space just down the street from the Kremlin—on the same block that Trump has rented space for more than a year.” Iris showed us pictures of Trump headquarters. It featured a red, white and blue banner that said, “talk to us about Eastern Europe.” “The 2016 election may very well have been turned by Russian hacking and false news reporting. It is certainly not going to get any better in 2018 or 2020. We need to have a presence in Russia, so that they can come to like Democrats more than they like Trumpians. That means money and promises.”

“Of course, it doesn’t’ stop there,” continued Ms. Cyrillic. “Sure, we can have a presence in Russia and sure we can throw money and promises their way, but the problem is much, much larger than the Russians. What is really required of a foreign government or organization, for that matter, to significantly influence our elections? First, you need a laptop and a hacker. Second, you need someone proficient at writing false news stories. And third, and most significantly you need a badly educated American population that can’t tell the difference between real and imaginary. Hackers are a dime a dozen, unemployed comedy writers are even cheaper and the American public just elected Donald Trump as a populist candidate. Oh, let’s not forget a news establishment with their heads up their asses.”

“This will give a whole new meaning to the term globalization,” continued Ms. Cyrillic. Our elections are going to be strongly influenced by meddling from around the globe. We will not only need a presence—that is, money and promises– in Moscow, but in Kampala and a hundred other places as well. Telling the truth from the lies is likely to be impossible in 2020 and we will need to make sure the best liars are on our side. And the cost? The cost of the 2016 Presidential election was just under 7 billion dollars, the 2020 election may well cost 100 times as much.”

And, although the news was worse than dismal, I couldn’t help thinking for one brief instance—“holy crap, I may get paid for writing this stuff.”

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Stevieslaw: A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall

Performed by Patti Smith for Bob Dylan at the Nobel Prize Ceremony. More vital today, in the age of Trump and his thugs,than it was when he wrote it in 1963. The last stanza always tears me up (in both senses of the verb).

A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall
Bob Dylan
Lyrics
Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son
And where have you been, my darling young one
I’ve stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains
I’ve walked and I’ve crawled on six crooked highways
I’ve stepped in the middle of seven sad forests
I’ve been out in front of a dozen dead oceans
I’ve been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard
And it’s a hard, and it’s a hard, it’s a hard, and it’s a hard
It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall

Oh, what did you see, my blue-eyed son
And what did you see, my darling young one
I saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it
I saw a highway of diamonds with nobody on it
I saw a black branch with blood that kept drippin’
I saw a room full of men with their hammers a-bleedin’
I saw a white ladder all covered with water
I saw ten thousand talkers whose tongues were all broken
I saw guns and sharp swords in the hands of young children
And it’s a hard, and it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard
It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall

And what did you hear, my blue-eyed son?
And what did you hear, my darling young one?
I heard the sound of a thunder that roared out a warnin’
Heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world
Heard one hundred drummers whose hands were a-blazin’
Heard ten thousand whisperin’ and nobody listenin’
Heard one person starve, I heard many people laughin’
Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter
Heard the sound of a clown who cried in the alley
And it’s a hard, and it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard
It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall

Oh, what did you meet, my blue-eyed son?
Who did you meet, my darling young one?
I met a young child beside a dead pony
I met a white man who walked a black dog
I met a young woman whose body was burning
I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow
I met one man who was wounded in love
I met another man who was wounded with hatred
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard
It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall

And what’ll you do now, my blue-eyed son?
And what’ll you do now, my darling young one?
I’m a-goin’ back out ‘fore the rain starts a-fallin’
I’ll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest
Where the people are many and their hands are all empty
Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters
Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison
And the executioner’s face is always well hidden
Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten
Where black is the color, where none is the number
And I’ll tell it and think it and speak it and breathe it
And reflect it from the mountain so all souls can see it
Then I’ll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin’
But I’ll know my song well before I start singin’
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard
It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall

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Stevieslaw: Rudy We Hardly Knew Ye

Stevieslaw: Rudy We Hardly Knew Ye.

Rudy Giuliani, the former mayor of NYC, is no longer being considered as a candidate for Secretary of State. According to an anonymous source in the Trump transition team, Mr. Giuliani has tested positive for rabies and will be put down. “Fortunately, only a few people were bitten or scratched,” said our source.

Trump reportedly knew of these medical results for more than a week, but was weighing the advantage of having a rabid “dog” on staff against the injuries and deaths it might lead to.

A glance at Wikipedia confirms that there has never been a rabid cabinet member, but such a dangerous lunatic might not have stood out against Trump’s other choices.

Mr. Giuliani will reside in a cage until after the inauguration and will be euthanized as President Trump’s first official act.

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Stevieslaw: Union of American Satirists Blasts Trump

Stevieslaw: Union of American Satirists Blasts Trump

The Union of American Satirists today took Trump to task today for appointing Scott Pruitt, the Oklahoma Attorney General and Climate-change denier, to head the Environmental Protection Agency. The UAS claimed that the choice was so bad that it could not be satirized—the highest form of condemnation that the organization can issue.

Said spokesperson, Marvin Juvenal, “we’ve been around for a few thousand years and can usually come up with something, but this shill for the gas and oil industry has beaten our best efforts.”

At one point, Mr. Juvenal adopted a serious mien and asked, “Wasn’t he the Pruitt that famously declared, why should I help save the planet—what has the planet ever done for me?”

Juvenal admitted that some in the Union felt that the only explanation for Mr. Pruitt’s open hatred for the environment was that he was not native born. “A majority—albeit a small majority—believe that Scott was dispatched from an alien civilization, several light years from earth, in the hope of forcing humans to repopulate their home planet—named Exxonia or something like that, by destroying the capability to support life on this one.”

“But how does one satirize that?” asked Juvenal.

“Damn it Orange, this is our livelihood your messing with,” he concluded.

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Telepoem Booth is coming to State College

I’m so happy to be involved in this. A little bit of a good thing in a sea of bad. Please submit poems. The deadline is January 1. Submission form: http://bit.ly/2gkGcYV

Telepoem Booth Announced, Poetry Submissions Requested

State College, PA – Visitors to downtown State College will soon be able to enjoy a new attraction, a Telepoem Booth. This spring, people will be able to enter the phone booth and call up a poem recitation. The poems will be classic, modern, and curated from local poets, community members, and students.

After visiting Flagstaff, Arizona and discovering an interactive Telepoem Booth there, John Ziegler knew he had to bring one to State College.

“John enthusiastically brought this idea back from Flagstaff and, thanks to a grant from the Knight Foundation Donor-Advised Fund here at Centre Foundation, we’ll soon be able to enjoy a Telepoem Booth right here in Centre County,” said Molly Kunkel, Executive Director at Centre Foundation. “This booth will add another element of whimsical fun and art to downtown State College.”

John Ziegler is spearheading the effort along with Sarah Russell, Steve Deutsch, Katie Bode-Lang, and Mary McGuire. The team will be collecting local poetry submissions, reviewing them, coordinating the recordings of accepted poems by their respective poets, and finalizing the installation of the Telepoem Booth next year.

“The Telepoem Booth is a unique way to bring poems to people’s daily lives”, noted Ziegler. “We will have classical and modern poems, as well as the work of our local poets – all available by dialing a rotary phone in an old-fashioned phone booth and hearing a poem read by a poet.”

Poetry submissions are due by January 1st, 2017 using this online form. All local community members – from grade schoolers to retirees- are encouraged to submit a poem. Poets may submit up to five poems. Other guidelines include:

· Each poem should be no more than 40 lines.
· Any topic is encouraged, but sexually graphic and/or hateful content will not be considered.
· Previously published poems may be submitted, with credit given to the original publisher.
· All rights will be retained by the author.

Submissions will receive a response in February.

“Poems on any topic are welcome, as long as they fit the submission criteria,” added Russell. “This includes narrative, free and rhymed verse, and slam poetry. We want folks to have fun and maybe even be inspired when they pick up the receiver and dial a poem.”

For more information, please e-mail TelepoemBooth@gmail.com and like the Facebook page.

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Stevieslaw: Twittering for Millions

Stevieslaw: Twittering for Millions

In my old neighborhood of Brownsville, Brooklyn in the seventies, you couldn’t question anyone above the age of 13 and not learn that making money was easy if you knew someone at the racetrack. Not so much at the flats, which were hard to fix, but at the trotters, where the carts the drivers rode upon could be easily used to block some other horse from passing. We had a friend, Yogi, a big guy with the face of a four year old, who worked for the trainers and groomers at Roosevelt Raceway. He was not open with information, but one Saturday he took us to the track and Potsy, Fox and I all walked away with daily double winnings.

That story crossed my mind as I rode a surprisingly slow elevator up to the 33rd floor of Trump Tower to interview, Skyn Flint, head of Trump’s “Monetizing the Presidency Group.” I was not alone in the elevator—it was full of applicants for the positions the transition team has been advertising this past week.

Mr. Flint confirmed that the place was hopping. “We can’t keep up,” he said with a smile.

“So I know you might monetize the Presidency by setting the President up to make money on the speaking circuit after he retires,” I said. “That sort of thing is routine.” “But, how will you go about making Trump money?” I asked.

“Mr. Trump is a special case,” said Skyn, “As he already has many billions of dollars and his hand in almost everything related to construction, recreation and finance in the nation. It’s hard not to make him money.”

“Take twitter,” said Mr. Flint. “We both know that any Wall Street manager worth his salt can make more money with a millisecond of foreknowledge than your average Joe makes in a lifetime. Suppose, just suppose, someone knew that Trump was going to tweet that the contract for Airforce 1 should be cancelled a few seconds before the tweet went out. Boeing stock dropped 1%. “Or for that matter, suppose the new President was to tweet, he said, reading from a prepared sheet, I won’t allow GE to take manufacturing out of the country, I intend to cancel all of GE’s federal programs.. And better, suppose he were to follow it up with a later tweet that said, Did I say GE, I meant GM.

Get where I’m going? It’s just one of hundreds of possibilities.”

“Of course, Mr. Trump can’t own the stocks—but his people can,” continued Mr. Flint. “And before you get all bent out of shape about this, let me tell you that I consider the work we do in this office critical to the health of the nation.” “We both know that Mr. Trump is only truly happy when he is beating someone out of a dime. And four years of a happy and engaged Mr. Trump, while perhaps far from ideal, is better than four years of an angry, disengaged Mr. Trump.”

I left even more deflated than I was when I arrived—I had thought that impossible.

Strange, but as I rode the elevator down, I couldn’t help wondering how my old friend Yogi was making out.

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