After three decades of public policy that led to the super-rich doubling their share of national income while paying tax rates a fifth lower than before — yes, folks, that’s way more money and way lower tax rates —
After three decades of policies that lavishly rewarded the super-rich — and produced wage stagnation for everyone else, a massive financial collapse that ravaged the middle class, and enormous deficits that they’ll be asked to pay off eventually —
After three decades of that, what do Republican leaders call President Obama’s plan to raise taxes a bit on millionaires?
Class warfare, of course. The sheer gall is staggering.
“The execution of Troy Davis, a Georgia death row inmate scheduled to die in less than a week, should be halted because of “pervasive, persistent doubts” about his guilt, said William S. Sessions, a former federal district judge in Texas and FBI director under Presidents Ronald Reagan, George H.W. Bush and Bill Clinton, in a sharply-worded editorial on Thursday. “Serious questions about Mr. Davis’ guilt, highlighted by witness recantations, allegations of police coercion, and a lack of relevant physical evidence, continue to plague his conviction,” Sessions wrote. He urged a state pardons board to commute the sentence to life in prison. The unusual plea from Sessions, which appears in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, is the latest high-profile call for clemency for Davis, whose looming execution has become a lightning rod for national and international criticism. Among those who have called for a halt to the execution, scheduled for Sept. 21 at 7 p.m., are Pope Benedict XVI, former President Jimmy Carter and the leadership of the NAACP and Amnesty International.”—
Early each morning I rose to bring you coffee in bed.
You kindled a woodfire in your workroom above the kitchen,
then walked Gus up-mountain for half an hour.
When you returned, you climbed upstairs to a warm desk
at the house’s southeast corner. I sat below and away,
on the ground floor, and we wrote poems together.
If we met in the kitchen, pouring another cup of coffee,
we never broke the silence. We patted bluejeaned bottoms.
For lunch we made sandwiches and chatted lightly.
We lay down for a twenty-minute nap, and woke to fuck,
dallying twisted together. Then I read aloud for an hour
from a writer we loved — Henry James, Keats, Bishop…
You cooked dinner, sipping from a glass of white wine.
I drank my beer looking at the latest New Yorker.
We ate by candlelight at the table, then read together
In our armchairs in silence under separate cones of light.