I'm in my office on a normal Tuesday afternoon. The sun is shining; the air seeping in around the cracks in my windows is cold; Bob Schneider’s “40 Dogs” plays softly from my laptop.
I’m reading an article about Governor Cuomo’s funding cuts for special schools.
Sounds drift in from the Commons:
Thomas a’Beckett
Blood typing
You’re welcome
The insistent beep of the copier begging for paper. It feels like I’m living in a poem; one about postmodern noise and meaning.
Punctuating it all is Cuomo’s insistence that
“We spend too much, we tax too much…you cannot spend more than you make” (Rochester Democrat and Chronicle).
I would not want to be Cuomo. Not now, not ever. I don’t have the answers; instead I’m racked with questions like “what DO we cut?” and “Which special interest group wins?” Because in our fragmented society, we are all special interests.
Comma splice?
The “t” in the equation represents time unless
How are ya?
The pound of the stapler; staccato handiwork
Bob Schneider becomes Katy Perry with the imploring demand to shut up and put our money where our mouths are and I think, yeah.
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