March 18th-March 24th, 2011
One Month In, March 18, 2011
by Sarah Busse [Read this essay here.]
3 Visual Poems: Monstre, Piebald, Social Penne
by Matthew Stolte
Monstre by Matthew Stolte.
Piebald by Matthew Stolte.
Social Penne by Matthew Stolte.
Matthew Stolte is an artist and poet living in Madison.
Beware of Better than Nothin’
by Joe "Pepe" Oulahan
3/11
Beware of better than nothin’
It’s a rotten game they play
Beware of better than nothin’
It’s calling from yesterday
When working and struggling
Was all that we knew
Before raises, vacations and overtime too
Beware of better than nothin’
We’ve heard this tune before
Beware of better than nothin’
It’s what all the fighting was for
Then workers got smart
And through a union we’d start
To make our own choices
And unite our voices, to say,
That we’re heading to a brand new day
Beware of better than nothin’
It started long ago
Beware of better than nothin’
‘Cause it’s back brother don’t you know
They say a casual job is all that they’ve got
Or its temp to perm then suddenly it’s not
Cause that’s just the way that it goes
Beware of better than nothin’
I can feel it in the air
Beware of better than nothin’
Feeding the billionaires
They say they’ve got to cut spending
The message is unending
Then they’re quick to entice us
With a made up crisis
Manufactured to give us a scare
As if they really cared
So, beware of better than nothin’
Cause it’s rapping at our door
Beware of better than nothin’
Here it comes once more
But just as sure as we did it back then
We’ll rise up strong and fight them again
For the common good is true and correct
And that is a cause that we’ll never forget
Beware of better than nothin’
It’s a rotten game they play
Beware of better than nothin’
It’s a call from yesterday
Joe "Pepe" Oulahan has lived in Milwaukee for 38 years.
Song for the Common Good
by P.R. Dyjak
For 30 years
the middle class endured on less and less.
We are not afraid to work.
We have worked our whole lives.
We see the breaks the wealthy get
from politicians they have bought;
they say of us: “not one of us”
and raid our pension funds, cut
our health care, decimate
our public schools.
Praise to the spirit of community.
Praise to the soul rising up
against injustice.
We did not cause
this economic crisis.
We will not be
the scapegoats.
Praise to the spirit of community,
of empathy, of neighbors.
Praise to the spirit of the common good:
bus drivers, librarians, snow plow drivers
and police who come to help us
out of mangled metal cars, who stand witness
so our protesters stay safe.
Praise to the spirit of the common good.
Praise teachers and professors who challenge
and prepare our future, our children.
We all win when each child succeeds.
Praise to the spirit of cooperation
to people coming together in unions,
to people coming together to negotiate
in good faith and willingness
to compromise.
Praise to those who come together
stand up
for worker rights.
Praise to the politicians
who respect the worker
who care about the middle class
as people, as human beings
living, breathing taxpayers with families
with rights the same as rich people.
Praise to the middle class
our neighbors, us.
We have endured. We grow strong
together. We stand up
together. Firefighters, construction workers,
every state employee: secretaries,
park workers, legislative aides.
Praise to the spirit of community.
We did not cause this economic crisis.
We are the middle class.
We respect the workers who labor.
We have rights, same as the rich.
Stand up.
We have rights.
Praise the spirit of the common good.
P.R. Dyjak is a state worker and taxpayer, a poet and professor of English at University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point, the lowest paid university in the UW system and the Midwest.
Face in the Crowd
by Ronnie Hess
The troubled eye,
half-open mouth,
and yet her arm
tight as leather.
Blonde curls drawn back,
a band across
her wide, smooth brow.
Her sure revolt.
Ronnie Hess lives in Madison.
The Domino Theory of Social Justice
by William Yazbec
I’m walkin’. Fats said it, yes indeed. People get mad when their social
institutions are challenged. Reprisals tend to occur. Society dominates intellect.
On a blue Monday, I saw her white powder skin, black check-mark eyebrows,
Bobbsey Rwin blonde hair, scuffed pedal pushers holding a sign. Red. Shouting
“Fairness.” She wanted powers separated, petitions signed. A chant from her lips,
slightly half-hearted as if she was afraid someone would hear she had a voice
amongst the din of blue-collars and servile public. In that moment I loved her.
Red-cheeked union leaders smiling into bullhorns with smoky teeth exhort the swells.
I snap photos, gazing at mud and faces, the bellies of folks less full of brats and beer,
fewer doctor visits for our clogged arteries. Ain’t that a shame. Fats said that too.
And yes, it is. There were some camped inside on the marble floors, snug in sleeping bags and kumbayas, greasy, free, perfect pizza at the ready. They dreamed of blueberry hills,
thrills, and sanctuary from the corps. Children spread out in nooks of the rotunda
with donated coloring books and cast-off crayons. I keep walkin’, think of the line,
“everyone understands me in the valley of tears.” This is what must be done: One step,
next. Another. Days from February march into our collective future where power plants
owned by yachtsmen and those that are more than happy to pay for our funerals will
no longer own us. A small man cannot ruin my state. I am going into bankruptcy next
week for errors long-earned in the west where my broken pieces lie. Here is a respite,
a fold in an arm, an embrace. Here is a new self. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, lake
to lake. Renewal at water’s edges, standing solitary amongst thousands of my people,
feeling the pulse in my throat like a hammer. I know I am a part of this world,
this country, this Wisconsin, this Madison. I continue to walk, the people an organism
moving from under the thumb. We are all friends and guests. We fight because it is right.
William Yazbec lives in Madison and teaches writing at Madison Area Technical College.
Used with permission of the authors.
Scotty, We're Coming For You
by Ken Fitzsimmons and The Kissers
First they came for the unions
Saying that you should have less
The companies need more, you people aren't poor
Stop whining, buck up like the rest
And then they came for the children
Hard to believe but it's true
Schools and good health might take from their wealth
So tell me what are you gonna do?
Scotty, we're coming for you
I never knew how much I loved Wisconsin
Till I stood in the capitol dome
With signs on the walls, the drums in the halls
Cries of freedom shouting all night long
Everyone standing together
Teachers in green, cops in blue
Hundreds of thousands show people have power
So tell me what are we gonna do?
Scotty, we're coming for you
For so long we've all been asking
How come people aren't more upset?
They're selling our clout, and tuning us out
They're not treating us with respect
The giant has only been sleeping
Now the sun is shining on morning dew
And from under the sheets it came into the streets
So tell me what is it gonna do?
Scotty, we're coming for you
Tell me what are you gonna do?
Scotty, we're coming for you
Tell me what are we gonna do?
Scotty, we're coming for you
The Kissers, are a Madison-based band known for the frenzied energy of their live shows, their off-kilter humor, and their eclectic instrumentation.
Pick Up the Sign
by Ed Bennett
They made their move,
their doomsday strike,
and they mistake the silence
for a signal victory.
We’ll hang our head
but not for long –
it’s our turn now.
Pick up the sign.
You’ve learned the taste
of a blooded mouth
like every worker,
every man and woman
using hand and head
to make a living wage.
You lost the battle, not the war.
Pick up the sign.
It is always war
against those politicians
who will block your words
then fight you for a buck.
They intend to pick us clean,
fill the corporate larders.
We have no friends there.
Pick up the sign.
It is not ended, Scott,
until we say it’s over.
Your rich friends can’t
file paper, pick up garbage,
teach our kids.
We’ve just started our response
to your invective. Watch close as we
pick up the sign.
All you working stiffs
who sweat to make a living,
watch us closely now
as we begin our stand.
Your turn will come
so join us here, and quickly.
Learn how it’s done,
Pick up the sign,
Hear Bob La Folette in
every worker’s slogan.
Then run for cover, Scott,
we’re coming and we’re mad.
Dignity is not yours to take
it’s every worker’s birthright.
Let’s move forward, people.
Pick up the sign!
Ed Bennett is a Telecommunications Engineer living in Las Vegas and is a Staff
Editor of Quill and Parchment.
from The Book of Walker—
by Max Garland
-Blessed are they who do make it more costly for the sick to be healed, the blind to see, the lame to walk uprightly.
-Blessed are the nine in-state billionaires, for their portion of tax shall not be increased, and they shall sitteth at the head of the table, and the front of the bus.
-Blessed are the out-of-state billionaires, for they shall inherit Wisconsin.
-Blessed are they who do hunger and thirst to deny the rights of the worker, for they shall be called Americans for Prosperity.
-Blessed are ye who seeketh to plant trouble-makers among the peaceful, for ye shall be called Governor.
-Blessed are ye who accept lavish vacations in California from the one ye believeth to be the richest of the rich, for ye likewise shall be known as Governor.
-Blessed are the backroom deal makers, faith-breakers, takers from the poor and middle-class to replenish the coffers of the rich.
-Blessed are they who do vilify and demean the people of learning, for they shall be known as the legislative majority.
-Blessed are ye who traceth not the names of corporate donors.
-Blessed are they who do bar the doors of the common meeting place of the people, for they shall be called the children of Koch.
-Blessed are the de-funders of art, for they shall diminish the beautiful and true.
-Blessed is he who turneth his ear from the pleas of the prison guard, the nurse, the minister, the priest, the rabbi, the keeper of the peace, the fighter of the fire, the driver of the plow, for he hath already received his earthly reward, even one-hundredfold and more.
-Blessed are the mighty.
-Scott-3:16-28
Max Garland lives in Eau Claire.
Workers Aren’t Bad
by Joe Oulahan
We got politicians calling working people slobs
Instead of talking about how to create jobs
We got politicians saying they’ll party once were crushed
I don’t know about you, but I have had enough
Workers aren’t bad
Workers aren’t bad
Sing with me if you care
Workers aren’t bad
Workers aren’t bad
But I’m not so sure about some of those billionaires
See that child waiting at the door
They want to give them less
I want to give them more
See that young child
Who helps them understand?
That soon they will be the future of our land
And teachers aren’t bad
Teachers aren’t bad
Sing with me if you care
Teachers aren’t bad
Teachers aren’t bad
But I’m not so sure about some of those billionaires
Taking care of those who have given us their all
Doing their best to answer the call
Working double shifts to make sure that someone’s there
Giving up their rights is not part of their share
Nurses aren’t bad
Nurses aren’t bad
Sing with me if you care
Nurses aren’t bad
Nurses aren’t bad
But I’m not so sure about some of those billionaires
They said the budget was the only fight
But then we found out they are after workers rights
They said fixing the deficit was their only plan
Now thanks to 14 friends the whole country understands
That workers aren’t bad
Workers aren’t bad
Sing with me if you care
Workers aren’t bad
Workers aren’t bad
But I’m not so sure about some of those billionaires
Joe "Pepe" Oulahan has lived in Milwaukee for 38 years.
Copyright 3/1/2011
Reach for the Sun
by Joe Oulahan
I used to reach straight for the sun
Used to feel I surely was someone
Had a job and a place to be
Until they took that away from me
Now, I don’t feel so good no more
I don’t feel so good no more
I had a house and I paid the note
Damn near had me a fishing boat
Wasn’t that much for any one to see
But it meant a whole lot to me and my family
And I don’t feel so good no more
I don’t feel so good no more
Now everything I had is in a rich man’s vault
He keeps telling me it’s all my fault
Says chained to a low wage factory
Is the only way I’m gonna be free
And I don’t feel so good no more
I don’t feel so good no more
I remember, when we were young
And the real freedom songs were sung
So gather ‘round my friends
Cause here they come once again
Saw my father in his final resting chair
He looked so tired standing there
Tellin’ me about all the things he’d done
Just so I could reach for the sun
And I don’t feel so good no more
No, I don’t feel so good no more
Used to reach straight for the sun
Used to feel I surely was someone
I had a job and a place to be
Until they took that away from me
Joe "Pepe" Oulahan has lived in Milwaukee for 38 years.
Copyright 3/1/2011
Irrelevancy
by Michael Belongie
There is no threat to bear with
in the hawk’s talons rending the
feathers of unsuspecting prey.
The protest so short, the shrill
squawk piercing, collision
calculating this token trophy.
Irrelevant that mindfulness
usurps vain startle.
