Several belated sonnets. Tony Snow took several weeks to formulate due both to the complexity of his situation and a very busy summer.

Jesse Helms' funeral occurred in the same news cycle as Jesse Jackson's intemperate comments toward Sen. Obama. The conjunction of these two personalities prompted a reflection.

For Tony

By all accounts a family man, a grac-
ious and authentic gentleman, the real
deal, as they used to say. You bravely faced
your cruel fate with dignity; your zeal
for life was evident to all. And now
perhaps, you know the final mys-
tery, but we are left to wonder how
a man so clearly gifted could dismiss
the obvious conclusion that the men
you served are blatant criminals whose sordid
deeds cry out for recompense. Pray, when
will they be served? Will Justice be aborted?
Or will they, in guilt-laden years to come,
Confess, perhaps, you were the lucky one?

Jesse and Jesse

Belated cogitations now on some
good ol’ boys: Jesse Helms, the last
unreconstructed yellow dog, now come
to the final vote—the measure passed.
And then disturbing words from quite another
distant Dixie son: poisoned wishes
heard from Jesse Jackson towards a brother.
(An old campaigner caught before by glitches.)
This odd conjunction of old moralizers,
“Traditionalist” and spokesman for Black rage,
Twin sons, bedfellows, victims, victimizers,
Flashbacks from another graceless age.
Regard these men and contemplate this fancy:
Which is worse – death or irrelevancy?

Another day, another dead celeb.
This time, it’s personal. Did your fam-
ous timing fail you in your heartbeat’s ebb,
Mr. Carlin? Did you choose this lame
bit that’s now stolen your encore? Too many
dead too soon, too fast these funerals come,
the vault of platitudes is bare and any
further words are empty words. We’re dumb
and blinded now. Perhaps it’s right and true
you shock us yet again, that we’re accosted
by your final play on words: how to
express our naked grief when grief’s exhausted.
When Tricksters, at long last, use up their chances,
Coyote laughs, and Kokapelli dances.

“He was a man, take him for all in all,

I shall not look upon his like again.”

So Hamlet said, and who would dare to call

his observation wrong? Though not a sin,

perhaps, to make much of our grief, all sages

East and West discourage such indulgence…

Which leads to poor late Tim: comments, pages

upon pages on the web, the gents

and newswomen would make of him a saint.

He was a man, and all these doleful sounds

do little, truly, for his name, and paint

these chief bereavers as paparazzi hounds.

Spare us these panagyrics about Tim,

To serve his memory, be more like him.

The talking heads all say, the nodding dogs
agree that what is best, in this season
of great change, is for her not to clog
the wheels of destiny. Come, use reason;
all those votes and voters, they mean nothing
now. They’re damaged goods. Sit back, relax,
and have a beer. Those many who would sing
of change and unity, and boast of stacks
of voter registrations, now they want
for nothing but tradition: “She must toe
The line of party discipline!” How daunt-
ing is this uppity woman! Go, now! Go!
Why all this ruckus for Hill to endorse?
To forestall, perhaps, a stint of buyers’ remorse?

I’m disappointed, Keith. No Michael Musto
To bid a last hurrah to Hill? Not crass
Enough, by half, distinctly lacking gusto,
That Finnegan lad. Now that you’ve made an ass
Of yourself with your own Obama-mania,
By all means, take it home! Why stop at half-
Way measures? No final farewell info-tania –
Excuse me – “Special Comment” – so wags can laugh
upon your throbbing jugular and spittle-
laden chin? Because, dear Keith, I highly
doubt that what you sell is news, and little
is the distance now between you and O’Reilly.
Now ends a campaign season most historical.
To which your contribution was deplorable.