Jelani Cobb on Joe Biden’s Thursday debate stumbles.

Excerpted from THE NEW YORKER:
For most of the evening, the author Marianne Williamson spoke at the periphery of the issues, but she was right about one thing: the coalition of voters needed to remove Trump from office will be drawn to the candidate who reminds them least of who we are at this moment and most of who we aspire to be. On Thursday, that was not Joe Biden. Kamala Harris’s unsparing sharpness and unsentimental willingness to flay Biden onstage only served to highlight that fact.

Revised Poem: SINCE YOU DISAPPEARED

SINCE YOU DISAPPEARED

I read your Social Network page where you

mentioned the increase in responsibility

you now have since your promotion.

And my first response was to write

an impulsive-child poem about how you haven’t

bothered to contact me for over two years.

Then, my second response was to think

about your hard work and achievements

and how I gave up too easily and too often.

Now, I have plenty of time to write poems

like this one while you’re doing something

more productive than revisiting bad choices and regrets.

At the very least, I’ve learned to be less childish.

Nathan Robinson on Joe Biden’s making nice with toxic people.

Excerpts from a GUARDIAN column:

You can be everybody in Washington’s best buddy, or you can move the country toward justice, but you cannot do both. This is because there are powerful political figures standing in the way of justice, and the steps you need to take are going to alienate them. Biden’s career is best understood as what happens when a person who is not actively evil decides to prioritize chumminess and conformity over taking difficult moral stands.

Unfortunately, Biden’s “DC chumminess” has characterized his entire career. He has long declined to take morally necessary stands that might alienate powerful people, preferring to be friends with “everybody.” This is only possible, of course, because Biden has rarely had to encounter the people outside that “everybody” – the Iraqis blown to pieces thanks to his Iraq war vote, the children thrown in prison thanks to his crime bill.


The problem here is not Biden’s “bipartisanship”. Sometimes you have to work with people whose values you find repellent. Finding points of common interest is basic political pragmatism (see, for example, the bipartisan Yemen resolution shepherded through the Senate by Bernie Sanders). The problem comes when you get so close to the powerful, and spend so long around them, that you cease to be disgusted by disgusting things. At this point, “friendliness” just means a lack of moral seriousness. To be chummy with banks is to be cruel to bankrupt debtors. To be chummy with Mike Pence is to be cruel to LGBT people. There come times when you have to take a stand, when you have to give your answer to that old labor question: Which Side Are You On?

Ultimately, the Biden approach to politics is a bankrupt one. If you’re all smiles and flattery, you are not really committed to a set of progressive political values. As Biden himself recently said to a room full of wealthy people, “nothing would fundamentally change” if he was elected.

But we do not need leaders who want to be everybody’s friend, we need leaders who know who their friends are and in whose interest power needs to be exercised. You can’t be everybody’s chum.

Poetry Audio: FOLK MUSIC AS WOOLLY MAMMOTH PRESERVED IN ICE

Poetry Audio: THE BURDEN OF ETERNAL YOUTH

Posting this just in time for the summertime rush of veteran artists playing outdoor theaters—some of them likely on farewell tours.

Revised/Retitled Poem: WHAT WE THOUGHT WE KNEW WAS INCOMPLETE

Be careful of how many bodies you bury
and all the skeletons you stack in storage.
There's always someone
(be it for innocent or malevolent reasons)
who will take as much time as necessary
to bring petrified sin and/or
purposely hidden failure
to the earth's surface
and hit the switch of a giant fan
so everyone can sample the aroma

Revised Older Poem: DOWNTOWN L.A. AUGUST 14, 2011

ate a wonderful chopped vegetable salad

with ten-dollar grilled salmon on top

at a new restaurant

inhabiting an old building

at the corner of 4th and Main Street

after dessert, descended a long flight of stairs

to use the men's room

and saw pictures of the landmarks

of an earlier Los Angeles

(Bunker Hill, the original Pershing Square)

altered or deleted by Progress

>

drove to Disney Hall

got lost trying to find REDCAT,

noticed young people

wanting to be famous actors or models

using the upstairs amphitheatre for a photo shoot--

and I wondered if the great Frank Gehry

would mind his grand silver creation

used as a backdrop for headshots

Revised Older Poem: CARNIVAL

Poem originally written circa 2004 about 1999-2001.  Trimmed slightly from the earlier version--still a subjective (and opinionated) take on a bygone era in Southern California poetry.

CARNIVAL

ONE

In a cafe's back room filled with 50 people,

the Host takes the stage.

ARE YOU READY FOR SOME POETRY?

he calls out.

The audience applauds.

In the prestigious first half, there’s a mixture of storytelling,

slam poetry and political sloganeering.

Applause is a guarantee if you read a poem with

the phrase “Free Mumia”.

The Host occasionally contributes topical verse

or personal reminiscence.

When the Host is through with a poem,

he tosses it to the stage floor with a flourish.

The audience-mostly poets-

either listen with rapt attention

or scribble spontaneous verse

into their notebooks

in hopes that they can surpass

what they’re hearing

when it’s their turn on-mike.

Then the Host shouts

IT’S FEATURE TIME!

The features are either well-known poets from the city

(occasionally touring bards from out-of-state)

or  the Lucky Few the Host chooses to groom.

Most of those Lucky Few tend to either be female

or share the Host’s political views.

The feature reads for twenty to twenty-five minutes.

Then the Host passes the hat

to ensure the feature gets paid for his/her work.

During intermission, some audience members leave.

A few people buy chapbooks from the feature.

Other poets head out front to pay homage to certain

Important people who host at venues in or outside the city.

TWO

The remainder of the audience returns.

The Co-Host takes over

since the Host has gone home

to work on a poetry project of his own.

Halfway through the second half,

it’s my turn to read a poem.

I read a poem about office life.

It gets laughter and applause.

One time, a poet close to the Host

tells me I’m good and worthy of a feature.

He says he’ll put in a kind word for me.

I never hear anything from the Host.

I say “Hello” when I see him.

And I know he’s heard my work.

Perhaps I’m not reverent enough towards him.

Or maybe I need to quit being funny

and write a poem with the phrase “Free Mumia”.

At 11:30 p.m., the last poet reads.

The night is over.

I give a poet favored by the Host a ride home.

During the ride, the poet nervously hopes

the Host will write a blurb for the poet’s

new chapbook.

And, against my better instincts, I tell the poet

I’m willing to write an e-mail to the Host

on his behalf.

The Host’s Tuesday night reading is the hottest

place to be in the City’s Poetry Community.

And I do want to be a part of it-

even if I’m never asked to read in the first half.

New Poem: HELLO TIMES PAST

walk happy through shopping mall

new vinyl-and-nylon marching band letter jacket

maybe she’ll notice, offer a compliment

oh no, she’s not at department store job

it’s too early to go home

no movies starting soon

walk to Disc Records

flip past albums and 8-track tapes

three male classmates come up and say

they’re tired of me because

my grades are too good

and their parents hold me up

as some kind of role model

one of them slaps me

in the back of the head

(no one else in the store notices)

before telling me I need to fail

at least one test

to take the heat off of them

then he calls me “damn queer”

before they strut away

it’s only junior year

PSATs are coming soon

if scores are good,

maybe I can think of going to college

that’s at least a hundred miles away

from this hell

that rarely stops being fresh