[Newspoetry] It's an un-Just Bus(h)iness as usual?

[DL Emerick]

It's an un-Just Bus(h)iness as usual?

 

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*  See, for example, my comments on Awake and Sing, a revival of a '30s play.  *

*  http://www.rapidcityjournal.com/politicalblog/?p=1252#comment-47651   *

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Day by day Bush.evil Bolshevik labors,

Wound the clock, rounding up a world,

To make ever more uneven its peoples,

In every public sector Bush touches up,

To restore its monarchy and feudalism.

 

War with Russia had but disappeared

Until Bush, looking into a bleak future,

Without any high technology warfare,

Decided that was enough of that stuff:

An Ideal of World lacking Major War.

 

Who better to pick on than the Ruskies?

Pre-existing hostilities long lay latent,

After a Great Wall fell on the Red East,

And Communism collapsed in its rubble,

A Society corrupt in its soulful Politics.

 

There was ever that lure to Communism,

The Promise of fairness in the Economy,

And the Idea of nurturing great growth,

Not just in an Economy but in all of Life,

To make possible days a promised living.

 

It could never happen in Russia that way,

That's what Communist theorists had said:

Communism roots in a Worker's Movement,

And Workers mean Capitalism's Factories,

The developmental processes of a history.

 

Russia had none of that needed foundation.

It was a peasant society, near barbarism,

In centuries it may be ripe for Communism,

But the Bolsheviks did not care about that,

They cruelly seized Power despite Theory.

 

Founded then, upon a total contradiction,

The new Soviet State could never be true,

Not to history, that it worked to destroy,

Nor to its peoples, and not even to itself,

Becoming the very Monster of its Ideals.

 

Against Mensheviks, the real majority,

The Bolsheviks waged Totalitarian War,

They shot not only Czar and his family --

Dictatorially, they shot all Opposition:

Never of nor by Proletariat, murdering.

 

Evil men like Bush need greater evils,

As contrast may make him look good,

Let his fascist regime look enlightened,

For his great hope is to make trains run,

Run on time, all the way to death camps.

 

Domestic Voices contra-Bush are still,

They know what to say but speak not,

Not because of any strong fears, silent,

But because simple fatigue, exhaustion,

Weariness of efforts lacking rewards.

 

You have to be a lover to labor, then,

A lover lost in his hazy golden dreams,

Loving a world that is always to come,

Sometime later arriving, yet on its way,

For dreams never are things, presents.

 

Come back to me, oh my lover, sleep,

Dream of that better world to come,

The one that comes only when curled,

When nestled into downy bed, pillow,

Covered and cozy, dreams make love.

 

And when you waken, to rude reality,

Do not let slip away, banish, vanish,

All those impossible loves in dreams,

But seek them where they could be,

Speak of them to everyone you meet.

 

So starts an ancient Song of Solomon,

Have you seen my lover, she most fair?

She is ever the desire of my dreams,

I seek her everywhere, find her not,

But I know what beauty she must be.

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