CULTIVATING LIBERALISM
FOR ALL CLIMATES
SINCE 1759
 
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Glimmers of Senate Intelligence
Bush Lies, Part 2,038 (*)

The Senate Intelligence Committee says al-Qaeda-Iraq links were bogus. But why the disclosure now? This is what the committee has known all along, but chooses to reveal only now, for the expediency of it: Many Republicans are facing tough reelection fights, they want to distance themselves from the Bush junta’s Iraq policies. The very same Senators who knew from the evidence presented them that there’d not only been any Saddam-al-Qaeda links, but that he’d repeatedly rejected al-Qaeda’s overtures, are now making themselves look like Captain Renault in Casablanca—they’re shocked, shocked to reveal that there’d never been any such link, President Bush’s lies notwithstanding: “As recently as Aug. 21,” the Times writes, “President Bush said at a news conference that Mr. Hussein “had relations with Zarqawi.’’ But a C.I.A. report completed in October 2005 concluded instead that Mr. Hussein’s government “did not have a relationship, harbor or even turn a blind eye toward Zarqawi and his associates,” according to the new Senate findings.” New? Funny how the Senate “finds” evidence that magazines and newspapers have harped on year after year. “The C.I.A. report also contradicted claims made in February 2003 by Secretary of State Colin L. Powell, who mentioned Mr. Zarqawi no fewer than 20 times during a speech to the United Nations Security Council that made the administration’s case for going to war. In that speech, Mr. Powell said that Iraq “today harbors a deadly terrorist network’’ headed by Mr. Zarqawi, and dismissed as “not credible’’ assertions by the Iraqi government that it had no knowledge of Mr. Zarqawi’s whereabouts. The panel concluded that Mr. Hussein regarded Al Qaeda as a threat rather than a potential ally, and that the Iraqi intelligence service “actively attempted to locate and capture al-Zarqawi without success.” Still, Colin Powell remains one of the left’s unfortunate heroes. His mythical status should go the way of his once-touted presidential ambitions.

The Senate report also unravels the sham that was the Iraqi National Congress, that pathetic creation of the Rendon Group that was made to look like a legitimate Iraqi opposition, with Ahmad Chalabi, a renegade criminal, telling Judith Miller and the Bush junta everything they wanted to hear to make the case for war. Here’s another reason the sham went so far: With newspapers like the Times peddling the lies then, and newspapers like the Washington Post mitigating the lies with qualifiers now, there’s always been ample room for the Bush junta to exploit gray areas that never existed. In other words, the gray areas were created by the media, when it was the media’s job to demolish those grays. The Post is at it again today: Iraq’s alleged al-Qaeda ties were disputed before war,” goes its lead headline. Disputed? No. The Bush administration was proven to be lying before the war: that’s what the headline should read. But no. Let’s keep up the charade of qualifying incontrovertible evidence to give the Bush junta the benefit of the doubt. It’s like apologizing for a serial murderer.

(*) That’s the number of days Bush has been in office, as of Sept. 9.


 


THE DAILY JOURNAL VANPOEM
 

As One Put Naked Into a Cigarette Boat

Continue chiding, since it's part of the new aesthetic,
and parcel to our coming home, as if
we'd disappeared into the burning bush
that calls to those who sit vacantly in parlors
awaiting a fate freighted with song and dance.
I stroll while staring and raging
with difficulty at the stubborn sky.

On my honor I step a little distance
from behind the curtain, only to disappear
the moment no birds sing, which occurs frequently.
Leaves dustier than furniture, the sound
of sleeping grating through the cosmos,
my footstool, my only talisman.
It's been real, arguing on your behalf.
Gray cobweb shadow, falling, floundering,
finding a place to not be shy and think
boldly about the oldness of beauty, a place
to rest its weary insubstantial head.

It may be that I stand on the threshold
of the checkout line, unsure of what
to be impulsive about, which momentous emptiness
to spontaneously identify my alienation with,
what kind of languor to slide into

before being reduced to grubbing for credentials,
locked in that tumid late-afternoon skin,
effervescing in its sea of dreams.
And all the things hearkening back to it,
the boat ride to breaker beach
there at the end of one world
where it paid to rage at the stammering waves
that kicked and screamed solely for my benefit,
staged objections to the inexorable fact of me.

Look: I've installed a turnstile in my kitchen,
so your picture-postcard of desolation has no power over me.
In this doggy-dog world land is made motionless
and the broads are standing on the wharves
with some of that sipping whisky on those silver trays,
which we'd be a bear to pass up. You speak
of the old gods who've washed up on shore,
but I don't see them, don't hear their hue and cry,
though their maze awaits us, will amaze us.
Here, let me get this little rock out of my damn shoe.
Then we can talk about paddling off to parts unknown.

 
Van Foreman
 
 

 


 

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