5.01.05 May Day Dimslow reckons
Poor old John Doe Dimslow once wrote a poem about May Day - you know, the worker's day, the worker's struggle, one of those many special days, okay, everyday, that should be known as a true blue democracy day - one of those days of course that our glorious noble leaders scorn. May Day:
In the 1860's, they campaigned for shorter working hours in many countries. On May 1st, 1886, workers in Canada and the United States, held peaceful strikes and rallies to demand an eight hour work day. Two days later, Chicago police killed several demonstrators at a clash between workers and scabs in that city. A rally was held in Haymarket Square to protest the killings, and when police tried to forcibly disperse the crowd a bomb was thrown. Seven police were killed; dozens in the crowd were injured. Eight leaders of the Chicago workers' movement were charged with the police deaths although none had thrown the bomb. They were all convicted. Four were executed, one died in custody, and three were given life in prison, but were eventually pardoned. In memory of this struggle, and the struggle of all workers for better conditions, May 1st was declared an eight-hour holiday in 1889, by the International Workers' Congress in Paris. In many countries, May 1st is a workers' holiday celebrated every year.
Maybe they should rename the day, Dimslow Day, in recognition of all us John and Jane Doe Dimslows out their laboring to uphold our lives and our country, which really isn't ours, since it really isn't a democracy in many ways.
So, anyway, I once wrote a poem about May Day, only it was about a different sort of May Day - as in Mayday, Mayday, Mayday, America, Earth, we have a problem here. Most people can see most of the problems, right, but most can't see, or think they can't see whatall to do about them to get those problems gone, isn't that right? Don't be shy, now. It's okay to agree with what the Dimslow knows - that is if you really truly know it yourself. And Dimslow ain't always got all the darts on target, he ain't always got all his cabbages lined up on the cutting board. But damn if Dimslow can remember the last time the Dimslow was wrong.
And so I'll say it again, just that little bit of it: Mayday to Earth, Mayday to America, come in, America! Mayday, America! Come in, America! Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!
Your house is burning, the children are not learning (nor the adults), and war criminals staff the executive offices. Mayday, America. May Day.
