RUSH RUSH II

Limbaugh: I want to know. I look at Iowa, I look at Illinois—I want to see the murders. I want to see the looting. I want to see all the stuff that happened in New Orleans. I see devastation in Iowa and Illinois that dwarfs what happened in New Orleans. I see people working together. I see people trying to save their property…I don’t see a bunch of people running around waving guns at helicopters, I don’t see a bunch of people running shooting cops. I don’t see a bunch of people raping people on the street. I don’t see a bunch of people doing everything they can…whining and moaning—where’s FEMA, where’s BUSH. I see the heartland of America. When I look at Iowa and when I look at Illinois, I see the backbone of America.

(More on Crooks and Liars.)


-LETTER TO RUSH LIMBAUGH-

Rush,
You goddamned, miserable, hypocritical, no-good, lowly, discriminatory, soul-sucking, malevolent, blood-born, bigoted, crazed, putrid, purgatorial-palpitating, ill-mannered buffoon! How dare you speak as the hallowed headmaster, superintendent, proprietor, sanctimonious distributor and arrogant dictator of this world’s misery!

O! Thy hollow, depraved soul is skewed

and sliding down an aural hole of agony;

a foul cavern as evil and as violated

as the servitude to an empire’s domination.

It shouldn’t take a flood to fill thee with humbleness, you blithering windbag!
Or a hurricane to elevate thy spirit out of the muck, you inappropriate pinhead!

And from this abyss, with swaying havoc mad,

as if thy words and jagged huff were God’s sway,

You rage that the black people are what caused such water-filled sorrow;

inferior form, a black shade!

Nor, dear Rush,
should it take a natural disaster to bathe integrity over thy soul, you glib, gutless gobbet!
Or a tragedy to soak thy dark heart with a love for mankind, you insignificant imp!

You're a Goddamned cretin!

A rigid, bile-crammed carcass

Wrenching thy darkness across our air and ears,

Years now, tormenting even those who’ve died for thee!

Thy fans are desolation’s addicts, you, their conduit!

Your spineless, pallid rage and horrifyingly insipid calculation
Shall never bring about even an nth of goodness?
Or have thou other, more baleful plans?
Is this despicable, gloom-filled diatribe your raison de’tre?

In this loudness thou hast reached boundless despicability

and firmly sunk into turmoil upon thy egocentric airwave.

Yes! We’ve been idle witness to thy feckless disgrace! No more!
Come! Come, Rush! Bring thy arrogant god and its uselessness!
We’ll be waiting…

Sincerely,
thepoetryman’s muse

© 2008 mrp/tpm

A CONVERSATION WITH MY MUSE

READ THE POEM +/-

Can you help me with something?
(Something?)
Yes. What should I write about today?
(I can’t help you with that.)
Why?
(I just can’t.)
But you’re my muse.
(Today you’re on your own.)
Are you tired.
(Exhausted and the house still needs cleaning.)
Then come sit with me and we shall redress the crimes of humanity; mans most brutal nature.
(You can howl of man all you want; right now I’m sweeping the kitchen.)
Should I not howl today?
(If you feel the need, howl away. Right now I’m sweeping the kitchen.)
The world’s treachery does not sleep or exhaust or die. I must write of their cold watch, their despotic sentry stands, stinking on his throne in the halls of horror.
(Sure, but treachery doesn’t clean our house.)
Whatever.
(Today I’m silent…and sweeping.)
If you’re silent you’re dead.
(Am I?)
Might as well be.
(Then who’s manning this broom?)
Heavenly things felled silent cannot howl their grievances. A paper cut is more pain to silence than witnessing the graveyards brim over.
(Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the world today.)
That’s not funny!
(I suppose it isn’t, but then I’m dead. Lift your feet.)
Huh? Oh. Sorry. What about tomorrow? If you live tomorrow will you loose your cannoned reason?
(You can put your feet down now. Who knows? And who says it’s reasoned?)
I say it is.
(Are you enough?)
I believe in mankind’s dawn. I believe in its musky hope.
(Musky hope?)
Yes.
(Whatever.)
It sounded good at the time.
(If you say so. You’re the poet.)
But you’re my muse. I rely on your tutelage.
(Tutelage?)
Yes.
(Bet that sounded good too, eh?)
Yes. I rely on your tutelage.
(Today my tutelage is dead and cleaning. Remember?)
Alright, if you live tomorrow?
(We shall see. Maybe.)
I will write tomorrow.
(Not today?)
In honor of your exhaustion I will not write.
(Honor?)
Yes. I’ve not stopped writing for years.
(Daily.)
Yes.
(Yet little, if any, cleaning.)
Only because man is trying to destroy the pathway of wonderment and our cities squat like trolls upon the orchard of youth.
(Should I bring suit against you for your oppression of me?)
What?
(Should I sue you for oppressing me?)
I never oppressed you. I exhausted you. Remember?
(Is there a difference?)
You came to me.
(Did I?)
Didn’t you?
(Must you answer a question with a question?)
Is that a problem?
(Never mind.)
Are you angry with me?
(No. I’m exhausted.)
You did come to me.
(Are you warming up for the trial?)
Maybe. But you did come to me.
(Did I?)
Yes.
(Wouldn’t it be more accurate to say that you sought me out?)
I- I- I’m- Uh- I’m not sure. I’m- Did I?
(You should know.)
Alright, but you could have said no. That’s why oppression is the wrong word to use. See? You volunteered.
(I object!)
Overruled!
(You’re leading the witness!)
I’m merely pointing out the obvious. The truth!
(I object! Misleading on the grounds that you’ve not “the” truth but “a” truth!)
Overruled!
(You can’t overrule me! I’m your muse! Remember?)
Not if you’re dead, my dear.
(Oh. Yes. I see your point. In that case I withdraw my objection.)
You volunteered.
(Yes. I did.)
Now what?
(Vacuum the living room.)
Okay.




Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman