Posted by: macsubhine | July 9, 2011

Rhetorical Dissection #1

Today, let’s look at entitlements and the recent and/or current rhetoric flying around this proud American institution. We could inflate this idea to cover all political discourse, from the debt-ceiling to free trade, but at the end of the day it’s the promises we cannot keep that are dragging us off the cliff. The history of state welfare dates back to the days of Otto von Bismarck’s German Empire (and probably much farther, in whatever form that culture formed) and can be found on the Internets, so we here at McSweeney’s Discount Submarines won’t waste your eye’s time on it. Instead, let’s examine the current participants, where they stand, but more importantly: what they say. Given that media-to-consumer technology has grown to unimaginable levels of complexity in terms of their reach and accessibility, every politician lives and works under somewhat uncomfortable conditions. All actions are carefully choreographed in order to serve their constituents honorably — but their words? Magnitudes greater. Such behavior extends to the highest levels of government, so because the Democrats are technically the party-in-government, let’s start with them.

House Democrats have begun brandishing rhetorical weapons behind House Minority Leader Nancy Pelosi, expressing defiance to the rest of the political spectrum’s desire to serve the citizenry a steaming bowl of austerity. They claim to possess the votes that Speaker of the House John Boehner needs to pass a debt-ceiling bill and avoid a Newt Gingrich situation. But how aggressive is their strategy? Rep. Gerald Connolly of Virginia quipped: “Triangulation isn’t going to work here. You need the Democratic Caucus to pass this.”(source) We love the word “triangulation” because it’s one of those words that most people use without knowing it’s meaning. Our dictionary says:

1) (in surveying) the tracing and measurement of a series or network of triangles in order to determine the distances and relative positions of points spread over a territory or region, esp. by measuring the length of one side of each triangle and deducing its angles and the length of the other two sides by observation from this baseline.
2) formation of or division into triangles.”

OK. If we’re reading this right, “triangulation” implies that Republicans are gauging, measuring, deducing angles — gathering data. It may be that the Honorable Rep. Connolly is right on the money in his rhetorical barb. Sure, drawing triangles is great, but if you can’t build a bridge then put the hammer down. Given that the American economy looks a lot like this , neither party wants to be the asshole who steps on the wrong board and brings the whole thing down. Instead they’ll just trade jabs until the last minute when they will bend to the globo-oligarchs and continue the bailout. My dictionary (courteously included in my 2006-era MacBook) lists that one as an informal noun, “an act of giving financial assistance to a failing business or economy to save it—

(Digression: bailout. Big thanks to the media for floating (hehe) this word into the common lexicon because it’s right on the money. Frantic sailors, buckets in hand while the sky keeps falling and falling…)

—from collapse.” Why do we drag this word in? Let’s face it — the Bush/kind of Clinton tax cuts at the turn of the millenium amounted to a massive bail-out of the American consumer, a “here ya go” that really meant “now send it back”. Given the procedures at the time for Congressional tax-writing, it was no surprise that the wealthy would quickly level up to über-wealthy thanks to generous “cuts”. At the time the entitlement programs were doing reasonably well so both Democrats, who were in opposition, and the Republicans, who had recently shaken off the Gingrichpocalpse, were glad to bailout the consumer economy. We’ve all been socialists (as some commentators rightly claim) since the 1930′s but everyone has chosen a different hat to present themselves beneath. In those days, everyone wore a Reagan mask because he embodied what all future politicians would privately model: huge promises with little and/or troubling positive return.

Going back to Congressional Democrats: The Hill.com (which is a fabulous site) throws us a few sound bites worth dissection. Rep. Emmanuel Cleaver, top dog of the Congressional Black Caucus (a 41-member posse), said he wouldn’t agree to entitlement cuts “[not] even if we were on drugs”. Note the extremity of his rhetorical imagery. It’s dismissive in tone and unfortunately does not translate into patriotic bipartisanship. Note the chemical/medicinal implications, as if to say that it would take a physical numbing of the mind by a foreign agent to get them to agree. And when was the last time you wanted to solve complex governmental challenges with someone who is a total douchebag to you? Exactly. Louise Slaughter called entitlements “sancrosanct”, a phrasing one could find troubling on grounds of ideological monument-building. Which is to say, you can build a monument to whatever belief you have, let it be universal health-care or monetary compensation after your “working life” ends, but the passage time and the evolution of culture dictates this cannot be.

This all boils down to something. Democrats have the ball on this one, right? Their numbers are more united than Republicans, whose issues stem largely from the mania of socio-fiscal austerity that grips a decent portion of their caucus. However, don’t count them out. The conservative rhetoric draws largely from the “death panel” pantheon of imagery — not the idea of Grandma and Grandpa being tossed from their health care, but torn away but financial ruin. But before we accuse Republicans of caring about American taxpayers, let’s examine an interview of Senate Minority Leader Mitch McConnell conducted by Greta van Susteren on her eponymous show (source) just over two weeks ago:

For the sake of brevity we will focus on one paragraph that we think sums up the entire Republican position when it comes to the idea of a social welfare state. McConnell states:

“I still view this as an important opportunity for both sides to come together and do something really important. Look, we’ve got a $14 trillion debt. It’s as big as our economy. We look a lot like Greece and that doesn’t take into account there were $50 trillion in unfunded liabilities, $50 trillion. Standard and Poor’s, the ratings agency, Moody’s is saying you need to do something about spending and debt. I — I know the President knows that. He needs to come to his senses here and understand what can pass and what can’t pass.”

Like most political statements this smacks of preparation. The introduction speaks of bipartisanship, the “importance” of putting aside disagreements in favor of agreements. To them, the consensus that cutting taxes and spending — which, to be fair, is shared across the aisle — is paramount to the notion that raising taxes is a great way to bring in cash and prevent cuts to what might be called the “people’s programs”. Why not gather together around what we can agree and call it a day? Note the two times the word “important” is used in this sentence. Repetition sticks to the mind like a fly on light. Who said politicians aren’t crafty? After this, McConnell presents us with big numbers to make symbolic comparison with the economy to the national debt. He does this to instill a sense of gravity, to make the voter feel like they too stand before something monumental. Don’t get us wrong — the debt is a problem. But come on — don’t people invest in America because it’s so great to its citizenry? Moving on–McConnell brings in the powers-that-be: the ratings agencies. We have noticed in our data-mining that this notion carries across the political/media spectrum, this fear of the ratings agencies’ pen that tears a government away from precious funding. Not to say they don’t — look at Greece — but it should be noted by every American that politicians are openly suggesting the sacrifice of generations of work because Moody’s, Fitch and Standard & Poor’s say so. At the end: “can’t pass”. The sound of a shutting door. It’s true the mechanics of the Senate are different from the house, in that the globo-oligarchs have fewer bank accounts to fill, but unfortunately we must come back to the image of the covered bridge.

Two groups of people on either side of the bridge. It’s been raining for weeks. The wooden beams are mossy and creak when the wind blows through. The groups throw rocks, insults. You first, the rocks are saying. Where are the Americans? We’re the cars that drive over it each day. We have to slip past these factions gathering at the entrances, but we can do nothing to stop their fight. They shout words at us, confuse us, make us turn away. We, as citizens, need to study their language to navigate the repercussions of the words they say and how they impact our world. Rhetoric is a powerful tool in the wrong hands, but by knowing what they say and how they say it, knowing why they say it that way, we can stay above the water during all these bailouts. Look for RD segments examining issues on state levels in the coming days, because as this next election cycle will show, so-called “national sentiment” may lead us astray in determining what the political barometer of the nation reads. We apologize for the ramblyness of this post, as we are playing around with this concept still.

Keep your eye on the markets, because they say what people’s mouths can’t. Until next time, we are McSweeney’s Discount Submarines.

Posted by: macsubhine | July 8, 2011

New models shipping this month!

WAIT! Don’t be deceived by the lack of posts. This is a relaunch, and that was a nautical joke. Moving on–

Great sun today. Great day for sun. Great day for the Fed. Great day for Republicans. Great fucking day. Everybody, even the dogwood trees and the cast of hawks outside seemed appreciative and smiled and glad.

It made me remember a dream I had a few weeks ago which in itself was a result of watching Sunshine, a great movie if you don’t mind turning down the criticality of your mind for an hour and a half. Unfortunately I don’t recall much of the dream, but the over-arching plot was that the sun was growing larger and threatened to destroy the Earth. Society had collapsed into a quasi-Mad Max scenario and whoever I was with and I sought shelter in an abandoned city, found a pair of towers, one collapsed into the other, and climbed to the top. But the one, real visceral memory is watching the city melt, the sun grow wider–but everyone threw their arms out, seemingly glad. Everything went white and I woke up, feeling good (but somewhat sore from a dismal mattress).

Odd dream, right? I try not to dabble in dream analysis, self-criticality based on unconscious symbolism. Total buzz-kill. Someone once told me that dying in a dream is supposed to be a sign of mental distress. One night I had five consecutive dreams that all ended with asteroids destroying the Earth. Each one had a different plot, cast of characters, objectives–I drove a rusty truck down to a farm, hoping to find my friends, but no one was there and the person I was with stood with me as this giant rock cleaved the horizon and I woke up. There was one segment that was quasi-medieval, in that we wore armor and rode horses, but this may have been an offshoot of my then-current World of Warcraft existence.

Anyways, here’s a poem from a long time ago. I apologize if it has appeared on this blog before. Oh, take this too, because we always need a reminder of how real the world is.

“Why”

Why do I try to write these songs
by a pre-dawn window
at a lightless desk, 
where the hours slip by
like smoke through teeth?

Why do I scribble ideas in the corners of parties
about children who are young and tanned
but have hands that are wrinkled and burnt?

Why do I bother keeping these people alive
within the empty edges of receipts,
faded business cards and my unwashed arms?

I know that I will forget what struck me 
as human and beautiful
about the curl of a cigarette’s sigh
around a pudgy, pink-nailed hand
whose fingers lost their minds
on a cell phone’s face, waiting for a voice,
somewhere, anywhere,
to understand the song they wrote.

September 2010

PS: Big shout-out to Squawk Back for being badass.

Posted by: macsubhine | March 19, 2011

Love is like a submarine.

“For ______”

Those of us who sleep after dawn
know that it is best not to question
where the pink exultations of day
will dart first.
The anxious will demand: will they leave
and shrink behind the stone tower
whose bells ring one moment too soon?
How about just past the low brick homes,
their shingles jagged and time-worn
at any other time but now they seem like poems
about dew bathed in luscious light-perfection?
Can I stop the sun from rising? their voices will cry,
and their inflections will rise like steam.

It doesn’t matter–by the time our eyes slip
into an amnesia-layered pillow
and we sink into a polyester mattress,
a cigarette’s kiss lingering on our lips,

the only thing we can piece together
is that a fragment of sunlight,
hidden in a rose-bush and long forgotten
by rain or wind or the closeness of fingers,
will spread like warmth
when you pick it up
and let it
go.

Posted by: macsubhine | January 2, 2011

Closing the doors for a while. I shall return…

“The Last Poem, For Now”

For now, I must watch
your white lithe spine
dip behind the darkened
trees beyond my writing
desk and nearly-empty pens.

Yes, yes, I know–
by setting this poem 
to moonlight I undo
that which I desire:
the passage of thoughts,
clouds spread from windows
that illuminate themselves…
and as I type I see
my words flash to nothing,
like stars whose last breaths
reach the earth just to bounce
off the air and wander 
the dusty expanse 
between the sun and moon.

And like the last moment of a star
I can’t make sense of my own evolution,
but please know that every poem I have written
is dedicated to the light-beams caught
in the gasps of self-inflicted supernovae, 
and understand that suns don’t set
and moons don’t rise of their own accord.
No–everything sprints in a circle
to chase its own exhalation,
to find a place to plant its feet,
to take a breath 
and
sing.

“Unsent Text Messages”

I.

i know i should have said this long ago
but you are the source
of every hand’s inspired glide
across my cell-phone’s face

II.

i write these snow-lit nights
so that your beauty knows but never needs
to wave its hand towards a single voice
who wants to write and kiss you
through this suffocating screen

III.

on the day i tell you how i feel
i’ll take you past these faded buttons
that define what love means in our time
past the slides of fingers and their doubts
to places where the currents lift
my words and winds
to be read and offered
passage through the air

“Self-Therapy”

I imagine sitting down with myself
in a darkened, pre-dawn kitchen:
we cradle coffee, speak in low tones
at the edges of stools,
and sing in smooth legato,
words connected like tired thoughts.
I try to explain

that I am afraid of sudden death,
here, cheek thrown against the table;
that I am afraid to know
exactly how a final breath feels
on the back of my teeth
or if my eyes, at the end,
will take in all light around them
or none at all.

I sit with myself for hours,
and hold my hand
while my face spills
against the cup-laden wood.
I wish I could escape
what our lips were forced to drink,
what our chests were bound to burn.
Here–I rise to perch a cigarette
against my gums.
Forget the next five minutes
and stop talking.

Posted by: macsubhine | November 3, 2010

New Model!

A poetry chapbook of-sorts has been published by Silkworms Ink! Check it out by way of the link below:

Chords

Posted by: macsubhine | July 12, 2010

Witnessed at the marina convenience store.

“Things”

Early-morning stop
at a gas pump for a box of reds
pointed out on a shelf
worth several blackened lungs.

Dotty is working. Dotty is a woman
with bent teeth and jagged hands
that have receded like roots
torn from the soil beneath
a New Hampshire-grown maple tree.

She slides the pack my way
and watches the news
hovering above us.

We begin the passing of plastic,
I stare at the ground;
Enter your pin number, honey.

We send the numbers. Here’s your receipt,
honey.
I scoop up the sheet–

wait no this one is yours
her left hand rises
to meet my right, to take back what she needs.

Her right hand seizes my left.
My receipt collapses like a weak egg
into my palm, and Dotty’s fingers latch on
with pleading eyes and a face of purple wrinkles.
I’m really sorry about that, no no it’s not okay.
I’ve got things up here.

–she jabs a broken nail towards her skull.
I’m just real distracted, is all.

I tell her that everything is okay,
pocket my paper and cigarette,
and head towards the glass door.
Dotty waves goodbye.
Have a nice day, honey,
she says to the room.

Posted by: macsubhine | June 17, 2010

Life-webs in the engine room!

“The Spider”

The spider, a sleepless weaver,
settles upon a lofty moonstruck branch

to ponder his web:
a gossamer sequence.

It’s beads are strung along silk loops
like the images of a poem,

a web that began as a simple idea,
the thought to settle and build.

It grew into the death-defying urge
to unroot legs, to lunge,

sing spinneret songs in blind strokes
across a page between two leafy twigs.

Silent now, his poem complete, he stares
into this expanse that bleeds into a haze–

No flies tonight, he would say.

Posted by: macsubhine | June 12, 2010

At the center of every engine.

“Fire”

We arrange the leaf-pyre carefully,
barely five, barely a boy and a girl,
each hand grasping
crispy flames, thin tongues of yellow,
red flickers crushed,
as flame does wood,
to dust that lingers in the air.

A collection of everything
we have been raised to believe
we want, represented by the leaves –
diamonds, dollars, decent homes;
I’m admiring your your auburn hair
stretched in wide lines down your back
like a forest that’s stretching
to taste the wind before it falls asleep.

(Once we played invasion,
raised a mound
from the tatters of fallen comrades,
but it rained and rained,
snuffed our playful fires and sent us, reeling,
homeward as the sky slashed
canyons through the mud
and bore the soaked bodies of leaves
upon biers of brown grass,
away from the mammoth oak,
into a drainage pit at the edge
of our elderly neighbor’s restricted lawn.)

“He’s coming–he’s coming!” you grab my hand,
ripping my autumn-struck mind
from the roots of childish fire
as you pull me beneath
the mound of crackling
leaves, an old man’s shouts,
for what feels like years

beyond wind-sailing leaves at six
to become strangers at twenty,
huddle around separate bonfires, fads the other liked,
moving trucks that appeared one day
and left with everything I understood,

until I see you at the bank,
countless flames later,
depositing your paycheck at the bank,
your smile white like a magnesium flame
towards the teller.
But outside it simmers
behind a cigarette filter.
We chat about politics,
friends who have given birth,
strolling past glossy stores,
rows of gold and ruby sandals.

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