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A Prose Poem by Anon ymous

I love edges. Anything that can take me down another city block, around corners; into the permanent. The air is lousy with shouts from irritated cars. It’s all breakable; you tell me joy is the number 8, always doubling back on itself. There is a catch in your voice; you would rather be home, digging in the garden until the sensation of floating ebbs into a drop of rain but this is no longer an option. Monsanto happened. Decay is left.

I want to plan a full color escape, feel the brush of your hand against my cheek. Until everything is simple math: minus me; plus you; divide us both in two, but this is no longer an option. Monsanto happened. Decay is left.

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Acquittal Vindicated the Constitution, Not Trump

An editorial by Mitch McConnell

Jan. 6 was a shameful day. A mob bloodied law enforcement and besieged the first branch of government. American citizens tried to use terrorism to stop a democratic proceeding they disliked.

There is no question former President Trump bears moral responsibility. His supporters stormed the Capitol because of the unhinged falsehoods he shouted into the world’s largest megaphone. His behavior during and after the chaos was also unconscionable, from attacking Vice President Mike Pence during the riot to praising the criminals after it ended.

I was as outraged as any member of Congress. But senators take our own oaths. Our job wasn’t to find some way, any way, to inflict a punishment. The Senate’s first and foundational duty was to protect the Constitution.

Some brilliant scholars believe the Senate can try and convict former officers. Others don’t. The text is unclear, and I don’t begrudge my colleagues their own conclusions. But after intense study, I concluded that Article II, Section 4 limits impeachment and conviction to current officers.

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Another Lie Revisited: Jewish Ritual Murder

An essay by Steve Brownstein

A religious Christian woman concerned about anti-Semitism sent me a link to a series of anti-Semitic YouTube videos. This included graphic videos simulating what is claimed to be the ritual Jewish sacrifice of Christians. The title of one video, “Jewish ritual murder Revisited, The Hidden Cult”, has a cover picture of a man being slaughtered with his hands bound and a bowl beneath his cut throat filling with blood. The video has the caption, “Jewish ritual understanding blood libel.” The cover picture is available if anyone wants to see it.

One video features a man claiming to be a rabbi talking with a distorted, phony accent. The phony rabbi validates the Jew hating interviewer’s vile lies. The phony rabbi makes up lies about Jews sacrificing Christians, including children, and how the Talmud is a satanic text that allows for pedophilia, child sex trafficking, human sacrifice, slavery, stealing and cheating as long as it is done against the non Jew.

Some of the YouTube videos provided a warning as to the graphic, violent content and asked for the viewer to sign in to confirm the viewer is an adult. But it allowed for this vile content to be posted and watched. That is, until the woman took action and the videos were flagged and later taken down by YouTube.

This is just the tip of the iceberg. The anti-Semites featuring this vile garbage will create different YouTube accounts under different names, and the whole process starts again. The amount of anti-Semitic material on social media, including mainstream social media, is enormous. The number of people that on their own try to counter the Joseph Goebbels of our time is miniscule. They fight a losing battle, and wonder how this is acceptable

If not for the random stumbling upon these several anti-Semitic YouTube channels filled with nothing but anti-Semitic videos, the content would remain, validating every Jew hater that watches and often adds a demented comment, along with influencing naïve people that know nothing about Jews and are all of a sudden learn that Jews are the most vile, murderous, evil creatures on the planet.

What will it take for a Jewish organization to establish an organized program, which can consist of volunteers if the funding is not available, that works in a coordinated manner to help weed out and counter the enormous amount of anti-Semitic content on YouTube and elsewhere in social media?

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Vowel Movement

A Poem by Donal Mahoney

When a writer lacks
verbs and nouns
he’s the victim of
writer’s block.
His mind may house
too many consonants,
too few vowels.

Without vowels,
his consonants congeal
and become a mass.
The result is
verbal constipation.
The only cure,
some doctors say,
is a very big

vowel movement,
larger than a loaf
of pumpernickel
or a Seinfeld
marble rye.
Some writers,
desperate for

a very big
vowel movement,
try dynamite.
Not good.
Other writers tout
Agent Orange,
Monsanto’s legacy
in Vietnam
dropped off
half a century ago.

But Agent Orange
is not the answer
for writer’s block.
It melts a writer
slowly and melts
as well
generations of
his descendants
as it has for years
In Vietnam where

the great-grandchildren
of innocent farmers
whose crops
were sprayed
with Agent Orange
are born deformed.
They are the new lepers
from Monsanto,
not from Molokai.

On the streets
the children startle tourists
from Boston and New York
who are munching on
delightful spring rolls
dipped in lovely sauces
at outdoor cafe tables
under big umbrellas
that ward off
the burning
noonday sun

Posted in Donal Mahoney | 1 Comment


Creative piece by Bob Boldt

At the end of the War in Europe, Norman Corwin broadcast these words
to the war weary world. In a time that had just emerged from the prospect of an eternal darkness dominated by Hitler’s fascism, Corwin
penned these words of profound hope, justice and peace.

Now we look to the prospect of a world far more dire and dark even
than that which the world faced during the conflicts that raged in
WWII. We former hopeful dreamers, we poets and wordsmiths must now forge new words to warm our despairing hearts through this new time of

Norman Corwin:

“Lord God of test-tube and blueprint
Who jointed molecules of dust and shook them till their name was Adam,
Who taught worms and stars how they could live together,
Appear now among the parliaments of conquerors and give instruction to
their schemes:
Measure out new liberties so none shall suffer for his father’s color
or the credo of his choice:
Post proofs that brotherhood is not so wild a dream as those who
profit by postponing it pretend:
Sit at the treaty table and convoy the hopes of the little peoples
through expected straits,
And press into the final seal a sign that peace will come for longer
than posterities can see ahead,
That man unto his fellow man shall be a friend forever.”

On May 8, 1945, 60 million Americans tuned in to hear On A Note of
Triumph, Norman Corwin’s radio masterpiece marking the end of World
War II in Europe. Lauded by Carl Sandburg as “one of the all-time
great American poems,” it was the most listened-to radio drama in U.S.

I write on the darkest night of the year, in the deepest freeze of the
year in the midst of a people who have turned from the light. In my
all night vigil, I await the last great tick of the Mayan Long Count
calendar. This will end an age that only the superior spiritual and
mathematical minds of one of the greatest civilizations on the New
World could have anticipated. The present moment feels like all light,
all hope, all truth are entombed and imprisoned deep within the earth.
Tonight my thoughts go out to all who lie in prisons. My thoughts are
with Julian Assange, punished for speaking truth to power. My thoughts
are with Leonard Peltier punished for championing his people. My
thoughts tonight are locked down with Mumia Abu-Jamal, in a cell of
lies that would stifle his strong voice for freedom. As the shadow of
death passes in its dark waves across from Atlantic to Pacific I
await, in the words of poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti, A Rebirth of

At the end of this long count night I will rise with Horus’ sunrise
rededicated with a new count, a new spirit, ready to help to bring a
last bit of light to this dying world. My brotherhood with all those
we have tortured, killed and imprisoned all over the world is
enshrined within my heart and is shared with all my fellow
lightbearers. We hold tenaciously to this wild dream so strongly that
those profiteers of greed, denial and division will never succeed in
extinguishing it.

In those dark days of World War II so long ago a far better poet saw
our predicament with less hope but far better clarity. Nearly three
quarters of a century later Auden’s words are truer than when they
were composed.

September 1, 1939

I sit in one of the dives
On Fifty-second Street
Uncertain and afraid
As the clever hopes expire
Of a low dishonest decade:
Waves of anger and fear
Circulate over the bright
And darkened lands of the earth,
Obsessing our private lives;
The unmentionable odour of death
Offends the September night.

Accurate scholarship can
Unearth the whole offence
From Luther until now
That has driven a culture mad,
Find what occurred at Linz,
What huge imago made
A psychopathic god:
I and the public know
What all schoolchildren learn,
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return.

Exiled Thucydides knew
All that a speech can say
About Democracy,
And what dictators do,
The elderly rubbish they talk
To an apathetic grave;
Analysed all in his book,
The enlightenment driven away,
The habit-forming pain,
Mismanagement and grief:
We must suffer them all again.

Into this neutral air
Where blind skyscrapers use
Their full height to proclaim
The strength of Collective Man,
Each language pours its vain
Competitive excuse:
But who can live for long
In an euphoric dream;
Out of the mirror they stare,
Imperialism’s face
And the international wrong.

Faces along the bar
Cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
All the conventions conspire
To make this fort assume
The furniture of home;
Lest we should see where we are,
Lost in a haunted wood,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good.

The windiest militant trash
Important Persons shout
Is not so crude as our wish:
What mad Nijinsky wrote
About Diaghilev
Is true of the normal heart;
For the error bred in the bone
Of each woman and each man
Craves what it cannot have,
Not universal love
But to be loved alone.

From the conservative dark
Into the ethical life
The dense commuters come,
Repeating their morning vow;
“I will be true to the wife,
I’ll concentrate more on my work,”
And helpless governors wake
To resume their compulsory game:
Who can release them now,
Who can reach the deaf,
Who can speak for the dumb?

All I have is a voice
To undo the folded lie,
The romantic lie in the brain
Of the sensual man-in-the-street
And the lie of Authority
Whose buildings grope the sky:
There is no such thing as the State
And no one exists alone;
Hunger allows no choice
To the citizen or the police;
We must love one another or die.

Defenseless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.

W. H. Auden
(Historical note: on September 1, 1939
Germany invaded Poland initiating WWII in Europe.)



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Why is there a past?

A Quote from Unknown

The past is the devil–you can’t fix the past and you can’t run from it. It’s always behind you, the devil chasing and chasing, but you can forgive and ask for forgiveness. This alone will chase the devil onto another path.

Pesticide corporations–Why is it you cannot ask forgiveness for your sins, but must keep piling them up higher and higher until…

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The Agent

A Poem by Dang Duc Nhu

~In Memory of John L. Norton, US Army
9/1941 to 3/2006
A.O. Victim of the poisons of Monsanto, Dow Chemical and others.

I am the reminder.
I am a herald of sorrow and anguish..
Pain and misery precede me on my appointed rounds.
I collect on debts owed. I am the keeper of receipts.
My list of diagnosis grows. I grow.
I am the Agent.

Through the years my disguises are many.
The result is the same.
I am irresistible, unstoppable, though once preventable, now terminal.
Look here to the dark angel of a generation misguided and mismanaged.
I am the way to this inglorious and undeserved end.
I have the last word.
I am the Agent.

I am the instrument of early demise ongoing.
I am a corrupter of men’s ideal and intentions.
I am the Agent.

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A Poem by chlrcbw

Tend not to make friends who are luxurious to get along with.
Connect with others who will strengthen you.
Definitely prize yourself away.

And remember always, never sell yourself to pesticides and chemical corporations.
They are always hungry, but not edible,
dangerous, but never good.

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Her Name Means Apricot Blossom

A Poem by Bob Boldt

Hong Hanh stops to rest
on the road to Ho Chi Minh City.
Through the heavy afternoon air,
she carries her son—
a legless, armless trunk of a boy—
in an improvised backpack.
The war is nearly forgotten now.
What is its memory
next to tired feet,
choking dust,
the weight of her beloved burden?
Robed monks pass in silence.
Into a bowl she drops
one of her last two coins.
The gods are now as remote from her
as the men who mixed the poisons—
who killed the crops, made the animals sick,
birthed all the misshapen children.
Slowly she rises to complaining joints.
If she makes her cousin’s before nightfall,
there will be rice and a warm place to sleep.

–from the comment section found here: https://moristotle.blogspot.com/2020/12/all-over-place-executive-of-pesticides.html


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The Executiveof Pesticides Celebrates Christmas


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