Corzine backs up Clinton's economic stimulus package

Max,

As I see things from my humble homestead in Wisconsin, economically speaking, Distributivism is the way to go. If you haven't read "The Servile State" by H. Belloc, I think you damn well better get yourself to the nearest Red Bank used book store and find a copy. Take a night or two with some good Spanish wine and pour - er, that is, pore through it.

 In the meantime, here's a poem to keep you wondering whether the economic plan of any politician is going to solve the world's problems....

The signposts are there. We're supposed to see them on the road...

 (That said, we must remember that everything in politics is treppenwitz.)

 Whisky up,

JOB

 Running Days 

In the cast-away shadows of schoolyard dusk

The school’s brick and glass holds up

Against a sun slanted late and steep.

A ride home is an eternity away.

Practice over, the sweat never dries

And chills the bouyant boy’s body.

Summer has gone away at last.

There are numbers of things we can make up

To replace it with --  like the girl who only

Showed three-fourths of her heart,

Her face in profile against a beach umbrella

The portrait of sweetness unobtained.

The wet smell of trampled soils mix and rise

With the scent of what brown might be.

Shod young feet, like a pilgrim’s,

Pinch at the coldness of evening dew

Spread late on the grass, clipped longer

And clinging to his running shoes,

A last desperate coyness of summer.

Or think again about the Navesink,

Lights bob in the deep flow of her chestnut hair.

It was the girl with French eyes

Trembling because you might kiss her

And looking away because you might not. 

Things feel like for good. Deep into dusk,

New Jersey autumn is used to

Behaving itself.  Colors change

And dog days heal -- unless winter comes

Early to teach it bad manners. But darkness

Firms up its leafless limbs, bracing

Students for a year’s good run at the season.

 Or look perhaps along the sad roadsides.

It was the run after school every fall evening

Counting spaces between headless flower stems

Where the ear hears its own heart’s blood 

Like the crinkle of leaves in fire.

But he saves his best time for last because

Only time will tell what counts at last.

For right now, though, dusk settles deep

Within the student’s lungs. And discipline

Pumps blood, it’s steady rate as sure as leaves

Falling beneath his feet, racing his heart

Down the roads that soon lead to home. 

                                                                          - J.L. O'Brien