Stiff Leaders

by Richard Oxman

Strummer/Jones wrote the chilling words below, of course:

> London calling to the faraway towns
Now that war is declared-and battle come down
London calling to the underworld
Come out of the cupboard, all you boys and girls
London calling, now don’t look at us
All that phoney Beatlemania has bitten the dust
London calling, see we ain’t got no swing
‘Cept for the ring of that truncheon thing

> CHORUS
The ice age is coming, the sun is zooming in
Engines stop running and the wheat is growing thin
A nuclear error, but I have no fear
London is drowning-and I live by the river

> London calling to the imitation zone
Forget it, brother, an’ go it alone
London calling upon the zombies of death
Quit holding out-and draw another breath
London calling-and I don’t wanna shout
But when we were talking-I saw you nodding out
London calling, see we ain’t got no highs
Except for that one with the yellowy eyes

> CHORUS

> Now get this
London calling, yeah, I was there, too
An’ you know what they said? Well, some of it was true!
London calling at the top of the dial
After all this, won’t you give me a smile?

> I never felt so much a’ like

“Like” rhymes with “bike.” Which is what people are going

to have to resort to like it or not with transportation as usual

coming to a grinding halt in London…and elsewhere.

I really do hate to play that mantra “I told you so,” but…let it

be said once again: Celebrations aside. Pay raises aside. Sweet

personal turns put away for the moment, there’s zero like the sobering

sound of flesh crunching to wake up the populace.

There’s no getting around it. The screaming which is coming across the

sky from the London Underground begs the questions:

What kind of olympic size catastrophe will it take above and beyond

WTC type tragedies above and below the ground in Paris, Madrid,

Podunk…and elsewhere for people to wake up? Whether or not

Muslims or Mossad or members of American agencies are responsible.

Or…how
many? One after the other…or simultaneously?

Just like it was never just the words with the Strummer strummings,

I ask readers to consider the energy being sent to us from abroad

now. And to act now to address…not what’s coming, but what’s

here…waiting its turn. For every season.

Loving regards in solidarity, Richard Oxman (whose latest writing

with a startling photo of Blair appears Behind the Dead Eight Ball: Translation Without Acc(id)ents).