LJWorld Headline: Kansas Alone in Defunding Arts
First off, Brownback's historic evisceration of state arts funding is really not a problem.
Art will be made, argued over, and taught to children without funding. Art will florish in environments completely hostile to it. Poetry written in Auschwitz. Many artists create beautiful and transformative work in an absence of support even a, teacher say, might find disarming. Consider the basic undeniable alchemy of El Anatsui's Lines that Bridge Humanity. Base refuse magicked into something rare. Beautiful. Valuable.
I don’t wanna get into a fight with a wagonful of broken-record dogmatic bullies. Dear my state's politicians (I miss Ms. Sebelious so) please don’t fight terrorism for one day and use that day to take a day's ammo money and spend it on food and clothes to the homeless kids in everysinglefuckingtowninamerica. My point is I don't wanna get into a pissing contest with these guys, I wanna problem-solve. So I have. My poem.
THIS POEM IS APPROVED AND FUNDED BY SAM BROWNBACK
This poem knows it’s just a little bit better than other poems. You can tell cuz how the poem gives full expression to your humanity only in order to deepen the moral condemnation of withdrawing all compassion from you as you read.
This poem demands you ignore the impending national discussion on capping population in adamant defense of stem cells while the paper behinds it closes down your neighborhood kid’s music program and denies his mom welfare (part of the poem will still support continued funding for male sports programs).
So this poem flatly insists you have your child. Although this poem has looked at your credit statement and is admittedly unsure as to how you’re gonna pay for it. This poem asks you to remember that Jesus is the answer.
This poem is heavily invested in McClownald’s & insulin also.
This poem talks about Jesus the right way and talks about killing other people the right way.
This poem was totally kidding when it compared hunting illegal mexican immigrants to shooting diseased wild pigs with a rifle from an open helicopter. God, people. This is not a pretty liberal poem for dope-smoking intellectuals who speak French like some pussy faggot.
This poem may have a spouse, not a partner, with a psychiatry practice that specializes in fixing gays but this poem doesn’t buy into that bullshit. This poem knows what’s up. They’s doomed theyselves.
This poem is totally cool with smoking tobacco because the slave owners grandkids are not bad.
This poem as conceived will be white words on a black piece of paper because it is the words that matter not their environment.
This poem know rabbits for foodorpets, recognizes you have some difficult times ahead of you, this poem knows it's gonna get uncomfortable, so again, this poem takes this opportunity to acknowledge in advance your continued support. You may now return to something good like Left Behind. Or The Jersey Shore.