My poem about the reactions to the World Trade Center towers disaster from my Baldheaded Poetry series. The Saints Just Cried by Jolie Blond 12/06/01 On the eleventh day mad dog killers flew airplanes into the World Trade Center towers and the rich saw it and saw that it was good and they screamed "Pay our debts! Pay our debts!" and we all chipped in and paid their debts. And the rich saw the money and saw that it was good, so they laid off legions upon legions of their employees so they wouldn't have to share. And the pure in heart said, "Help the victims! Help the victims!" and we all chipped in and sent the money to charities and the charities saw the money and saw that it was good and collected pennies from school children and ran television ads asking for more and cried copiously and collected the money and rent their clothes and poured ashes on their heads and promised to do good. And the charities became rich and saw that it was good and said, "This is OUR money now, the victims are trying to cheat us out of OUR money! We might give them SOMETHING, but you can't expect us to give it ALL away!" And the people, horrorfied by the carnage, cried, "What can we do? What can we do?" and the rich saw it and saw that public sentiment was good and the rich answered the cries, "Save the rich! Buy our products! Save the rich! Buy our products! Show yourself a patriot: Buy more stuff!" And the politicians, fearful that the people might find out that THEIR bungling had aided and abetted the enemy, pointed to the east and cried, "Kill them! Kill them!" and the killing began and the politicians saw that it was good and gave themselves a raise when no one was looking anywhere but east. And the rich cried "Hallelujah!" And the charities cried "Hallelujah!" And the politicians cried "Hallelujah!" And the people cried "Hallelujah! And the saints just cried. Distributed by Tubemogul.
Prose about a helium party balloon that lands in a vacant lot. Distributed by Tubemogul. Blue Balloon by Jolie Blond 10/07/01 Blue Balloon, hovering two feet over a brownish, overgrown vacant lot, like an off-color scarecrow, like an airhead sentinel guarding weeds. From where have you come, blue balloon? Did you escape the small, stubby fingers of a child, breaking her young heart? Did you tear loose from a grand opening, floating away from your brothers and sisters unnoticed? Were you carelessly anchored or did you struggle? Or maybe you're a terrorist weapon, anthrax spores mixed with your helium. I saw you last night, blue balloon bobbing and poking your plastic head a foot above the weeds. Did you have a message for me? For someone like me? This morning I came out to visit you and you were dead . . .or sleeping . . . lying in the dirt amid the weeds shrunken half last night's size, immobile. I never knew you, blue balloon. I know you flew. I know you soared to great heights before you landed in the abandoned lot where all manner of abandoned others landed; broken stuff, unwanted stuff, unuseablle stuff: worn tires and broken pots and candy bar wrappers . . . but you flew there, blue balloon. I'll give you that.
Little Giant
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