YouLoveMe

My Thought Crime Political anger lives inside me, I tore up news photos for many years, First ones of Nixon and his GOP, I ripped out Osama with nails and shears.    I quit.  But after Jan. 6, the urge came back, This time it took a more sinister form, Trump I wanted to shoot, to kill, to whack, With one golf course shot I'd become the storm. My fever broke when Routh was arrested, The dream that I had he almost made real, I search for worth in what I've detested, I've exalted thought.  Can I, like Trump, feel? Must our reason be rooted in passion? If so, should we write in a new fashion?

They say I'm fascist like Mussolini, I say it's good for trains to run on time, I've acted him, played the jut-jawed meanie, But our times are diff'rent, his land's not mine. I'm not saying that I'm better than him, In his shoes I might have done the same thing, In America you can't rule by whim, You've got elections, you let freedom ring. I'm not much at all like the German guy, He hated the Jews 'cuz they were better, I like people who succeed and aim high, Don't put them down--admire the go-getter. The real fascists are people who tear down, I build.  A commie is a fascist clown.

We had a place for a year in Montclair, It was in tbe heart of the pandemic, Our shore place was rented, no refuge there, 'Twas 2020, year of polemic. It was a stud'io at 65 Church, It was the last home of my Aunt Pearl's bed, I climbed from Church to the ridge of pine and birch, The restaurants were lively, the church was dead. I floundered, it was my sabbatical, I took on the craziness of the year, My feelings turned toward the fanatical, I was lucky to have a safe space here. I'm thankful to Java Love and Montclair, My havens for pandemic self-care.

Not all your bells cannot ring, Not all wrong is your offering, There's a glint, a glint in everything, That's how the cracks are seen. [The original: Ring the bells that still can ring, Forget your perfect offering, There's a crack, a crack in everything, That's how the light gets in.]  

We're on Church Street, but we are not a church, We are U-Us who are centered on love, Montclair, as you'll see when you do a search, Is where we are at, not what we are of. And yet people call us the Montclair church, I'm irritated but I understand, 'Tween God and not and "at" and "of" we lurch, Montclair's more than a place, it's our true land. My old church in Orange is Faith + Works, It's lost its identity as a church, In Montclair, Jesus still quietly lurks, I like the two stools between which we perch. I myself am both at and of Montclair, A part of my divided soul lives there.

Before me, it was a lib'ral hellhole, A rat-trap, boosted by network effects, Old Twitter played an orc-ish and fell role, In turning good people into woke wrecks. Have I lifted and boosted my own voice? You bet I have, it's my company now, Being on it is a matter of choice, You don't like it?  Uranus can have a cow. Doge gave fedworld a sharp kick in the pants, A boss must run his organization, When bureaucrats rule, a Pres has no chance, Trump is the CEO of the nation. I tore off the fed'ral lib'ral fetter, Doge like X made democracy better.  

Cutting Off Netscape's Air Supply, by Bill Gates The air supply email--it wasn't mine, But I was the boss, it came down to me, The trial came down to a throwaway line, To a choking image you can't unsee. I can see the logic of antitrust, The IBM case helped me make my bones, I can't say going 'gainst me was unjust, But computing is not like oil or phones. Heath's market failure test is open-ended, So is Freeman's stakeholder criter'ion, Law's a domain where the truth is bended, Ethics posits an unreal empyr'ean. My father was a lawyer, we need law, Its subjectivity is a real flaw.

We had to do Jan. 6, the courts were blind, Democrats have stolen votes forever, It's been happening since time out of mind, LBJ, Daley--they pulled your lever. Mail ballots are a Dumocrat swindle, With harvesting it's Katie bar the door, You gotta fight with fire, not Kindle, C'mon we gotta win, this is a war. My whole life the Dumocrats have cheated, They've got the profs and the dirty dealers, By their crap I will not be defeated, '24 avenged me 'gainst the stealers. If I'd rolled over I would have been done, I'd have been yesterday's news, like Bush One.  

Or how could you find it?  So I posted. Did I learn how from Trump?  I admit, yes, The richest man is going to get roasted, I'll make poo and Go jokes, you can play chess. I'm not the wisest man of all I know, I'm awkward and I clown around a lot, But I am the best in hoeing my row, In hatching a rocket from a dry plot. My Uranus posts hustle for Boring, I'll never be a pol, I hate the peeps, Grimes!  I'd love to do some make-up scoring, I still love you, don't listen to the creeps. If the powers that be send me to Hell, I will fly away to Mars from my cell.

My Response to Your Request, by Bill Gates First, I have a criticism for you, Integrity is not political, It might be lib or con ethics, that's true, But it might not be--and that's critical. I'm sure I'm on the right side of the line, I've lost my old obsession with winning, Somewhat!  I've done much that's better than fine, Doing great good makes up for some sinning. Melinda has some good gripes against me, May her charity be as good as mine, From belief in God I've aways been free, Saving lives for me is what is divine. I don't believe in original sin, Lakewood, my parents--how lucky I've been.  

There are three things I trained myself to do, The first thing is to always tell the truth, I always tell lies--they're part of what's true, I reveal myself--I show I'm uncouth. The second is to always make things new, I'll give my Wharton profs credit for that, You gotta have a new turn of the screw, If not, you're toast, you're old Fred in his hat. The third--I always get snobs to hate me, Doing that gets the people on my side, I don't want a professor to date me, I want you on my roller coaster ride. I've made myself what people really are, I've gotten Oscars.  I'm a superstar.  

Montclair is the town I never moved to, I saw it first when I was nine years old, A South End home that I could have grooved to, My parents chose Chatham, they weren't so bold. I saw it again at thirty seven, Our baby son was in a Snugli pack, The South End could be our fam'ly heaven, We weren't afraid.  Forward!  No looking back. Montclair was cheap, South Orange cheaper, We got a place there for 95 thou, The trains were loud, the house was a keeper, SO was home, Montclair was posh--MAM!--wow. I don't regret our choice in '92, My parents' in '64?  That I do. Wayne Eastman, 9-23-2026

Is my land still the land of Hollywood, The land of Walt Disney and Clark Gable, A land of people who think ourselves good, Who believe in our national fable? Is Mexico still the land that Paz saw, A land in which darkness is visible, In which pessimism's a reigning law, In which U.S. optmism's risible? In Netflixismo, our nations unite,  It's bigotry that holds back our glory, Let's tear it from our hearts, let's seek the light, In a manner that's peaceful not gory. Left-right war inheres in Netflixismo, Better it than nation'list machismo.  

At Walmart I drop my Delirium,* It sprays. "Mi falta," I say to the clerk, I'm an agent of the imperium, So it feels.  I pay, thinking I'm a jerk. Minutes later, I return to the store, A new Delirium will soon be mine, But they're gone, not one is there anymore, They've hidden their superpremium line.* Here as at home, sinners are forgiven, "You break it--you buy it!"' does not apply, Mexicans like gringos are now riven, We self-serve and other-serve, sell and buy. In Walmart's boxed temples, ethics converge, Teotihuacan and Old North Church merge. In this temple, sinners are forgiven,

UNAM* has an event on migration, In Mexico, might I grasp my own land?  I'm a monoglot son of my nation, But Aviva's Spanish I understand. It's helped by her having a powerpoint, Featuring a Barbados civil code,* Racismo is the logic of the joint, Noam's daughter* explains the rules of the road. I take the bus home to my corner store, It's a Walmart I shop at ev'ry day, Here in CDMX they are core, At home I've never been, I stay away.   Wokeismo and Walmartismo are strong, Here as much as at home, they both belong.

Fun should not be subject to censure, Bourbon Street is right, let the good times roll, Into each life should come an adventure, Life with escapades is a life lived whole. The point is to go there and back again, Adventure is the point and so is home, The Shire's as important as Shelob's den, It's as good to lounge as it is to roam. I imagine one of you on a quest  Filled with many orcs and artill'ry flak, Upon it depends the fate of the West, When it's over you say, "Colin, I'm backi." You'll have your own Shire and your Rivendell, I'm confident you will do good and well.  

Sam Moyn--it's fine to take my vote away! Why?  I don't give a fig about p(doom), I'm old now, I could pop off any day, My life's been good, it's running out of room. Making my death worthy is my great job, I'm go'ing to a land from which none return, Will death serve wide, make me run for a lob? Deal gently with me, make me feel the burn? My p(doom) is one, it's not deputable,  It's the essence of my late-life journey, Will my end be louche or reputable? Will I fin'ly let go of the tourney? I choose not to vote--I'm done ruling you! My old man's job is important to do.

The night before I left I spoke with Fanny, I told her I was sad I was leaving her to fight, She told me she wanted to be at my side. That it would be holy for us to die together to make men free, I said I would do my best to live, That my love for her would never die. At Ball's Bluff fortune cast her die, A spent shot struck me on the fanny, Battle smoke rose like a gray wraith, curling, live, I ran away toward the middle of the fight, We were retreating from Virginia to the land of the free, I felt no animus for the Rebs on the other side. III As I ran a Minie ball pierced my chest on the near right side, I said, "I'm a gone coon, I'm gonna die, God of this damn pain I wanna be free." I closed my eyes and thought of Fanny, I disbelieved in my belief in the fight, In reason, in morals, in the will to live. IV My father the doctor knew it could be better not to live, I had laudanum hidden in a vial in a pocket by my side, With it I could peacefully die, Think last...

Sex is like law--no to formalism! Likewise to moralistic reproval, To Swift'ian Big End--Little End schism, To fights for red light district removal. Hopeless cads coexist with hopeless dads, I happen to be one of the latter, I saw her first when we were not yet grads, We are she are me are all that matter. Darwin measures us by fecundity, I am Genghis Khan, verbal division, You might say that we lack profundity, But we reproduce!  Bah to derision! Sex and Reason was not a Pauline work, It was a lark, a part-time scholar's perk. One morning 

Did I believe in the EAL creed? Yes.  But my loyalty was divided, To Yeats and Eliot I gave greater heed     than to models with feelings elided. I was no Mr. Brooks.  Sanctuary       was not my deepest passion, I rooted               in the ground, I flew to no high aerie,                      No Keats I, in me no genius fruited. Was John Nash as great a talent as Keats? Perhaps, and his fate was just as tragic, I revere them both and envy their feats,  For me art possesses greater magic. I am third said a Chicago player, Yes. Art, math, me in a lower layer.

EAL was my conversion story, I who was Saul was born again as Paul, Econ's logic underlay law's glory, I would preach to Jew, to Gentile, to all. I wrote the book in a red hot fever, A rational one, I hasten to add, I was a renegade eager beaver, Opening channels was good, dams were bad.   On and on I wrote, on and on I gnawed. Freedom to compete was the point of law, The mandates of the liberal state were flawed, Late 60s craziness stuck in my craw. Paul was sincere, we may assume.  Was I? Was my faith always partial, mixed, and wry?   

In my lucky land, I do a heel turn, I'm a wrestling villain in crimson tights, My moves help make the Keynesian wheel turn, Friedman's our headliner, his name's in lights. The people who run the show are in shock, Gorgeous George is headlocked by George Stigler! We're bad geeks destined to lose to the Rock, Ronald Dworkin's The Man, I'm The Wriggler. The show-runners retain some of their pow'r, In law schools we're a small minority, But we're rising, it's the Chicago hour, In elections we're the majority. I can take all their moral sticks and stones, I like my side's chances, let's roll dem bones. ,

Posner, from Poznan, is just a person, Richard, from the West Side, is a rich rad, I'm abstract and particular, verse 'n     prose, happy, angry, and calm, but not sad. Rich rad person applies to Blanche and Max, My high chair was a liberal limousine, They fed me with great books instead of snacks, Henry James was inside my soup tureen. Shuffled up, my childhood could have been dire, Chelmno was near the city of my name, My mother led me to the sacred fire, To Homer, away from her old home's shame. Thanks to them both, I've had a lucky life, Playing with words, wielding Occam's sharp knife.

The one son who appears the same as me       has a very different disposition, The son whose seed blew far from the tree      has his father's taste for cool sedition. They have formed me as much as I've formed them, My wife formed us all, made us into men      who can parse a line but not sew a hem, Our now reforms and is formed by our then. With neither have I ever raised my voice.  With my wife--well, that's a diff'rent story, I told them both that anger is a choice, That cars pose risks commonplace and gory. They grew in the unheavenly city, They made it marginally more pretty.

I was relieved that she'd finally gone quiet,  That she didn't have political views, That she didn't worry about my diet, That she didn't rage at the morning news. Tough-minded hard-headed Max became frail, He doted on Blanche, stroked her like a cat, He asked me once, should they put me in jail      for my loans?   Outside, he put on a hat. Why shouldn't I put them both in a zoo       and charge people a dollar to see 'em? I won't, I'm ruled by convention, it's true, They are monkeys now, I'll one day be 'em. Should I get a case of elder abuse, I will have a bent to find an excuse.   

Poems 1-4 My Early Years Economic Analysis of Law ( A ntitrust) I Am Third ( A sylum) Nietzsche ( B ite-Mark Evidence)  Anagrams ( C atastrophic Risk) Poems 5-8 My Middle Years Sticks and Stones ( M icroscopic Hair Evidence) My Parents ( N euroscience) Sex ( O bsession with Citation Form) My Sons ( P sychology) Poems 9-12 My Later Years Changes ( T heories of Constitutional and Statutory Interpretation) The Young Unitarian-Universalist's Sermon ( U mpireal (versus Managerial) Conceptions of Judging) Peacefully I Resolve to End My Days ( V erbose, Overly Complex, Vague, Poorly Written Judicial Opinions) Ball's Bluff ( Z oning)

With aging has come disinhibition, Suffering fools gladly is not easy, That was never my nat'ral condition, It's harder to be relaxed and breezy. Some other changes in me are odder, I'm thawing, ice is turning to water, Meter and scansion are my fodder, I dream about my never-born daughter. Under my ubermensch horny skin       is an oozy soft mass of compassion, I can feel each indigent's woe within, To each one I must give reason's ration. Am I Nietzsche now, embracing the horse? You think me mad.  I disagree, of course.

I walk through the woods to the library, In a glade a short boy holds a small frog, I'll squeeze him til he bursts like a berry, No, his tall friend says, put him on the log. The frog skips off, I am caught in a bind, I'm not the tall boy, I'm not a leader, I command empires that are in my mind, I am not a doer, I'm a reader. In blond wood stacks I am curled up in peace, I will check out Beyond Good and Evil, In thought there is mast'ry without surcease, No matter if I'm warrior or weevil. Nietzsche I think was a boy much like me, A bottom and a top, a worm, a tree.