The Justice Department is on Netroots Radio.com Sundays 8pm to 9pm Pacific and Mondays 9pm to Midnight Pacific. Powered by Unity Radio Net!
I'm Special Agent DJ Justice; Radio Host and Program Director for Netroots Radio.com; and I'm manning the dials, spinning the discs, warbling the woofers, putting a slip in your hip and a trip to your hop.
The playlist for Sunday 12 January 14 8pm to 9pm Pacific Edition of The Justice Department: Musique sans Frontieres
~~ "Blood From a Kitchen Fresco" ~~
1 - Minutemen -- "One Reporter's Opinion"
2 - Gang of Four -- "To Hell with Poverty"
3 - Dead Kennedys -- "The Terror Of Tinytown"
4 - MC5 -- "Over and Over"
5 - Mission of Burma -- "That's When I Reach For My Revolver"
6 - The White Stripes -- "Seven Nation Army"
7 - Tom Waits -- "Gun Street Girl"
Station Break
8 - Thievery Corporation -- "Lebanese Blonde"
9 - Edie Brickell -- "What Would You Do?"
10 - Tinariwen -- "Imidiwan Matanam"
11 - Zero 7 -- "Give It Away"
12 - Radiohead -- "Reckoner"
13 - Bill Frisell -- "Where Do We Go?"
Who luvs ya, baby?
The Netroots Radio Player
Daily Kos Radio, Vintage James Baldwin, Labor History, Native American Documentaries, Flashpoints, RadioLabor News, Democracy Now, The David Packman Show, The Union Edge, The Professional Left with Driftglass and Blue Gal, West Coast Cookbook 6 Minute Recipes, Jim Hightower, Green News Report, ACLU Minutes, Nicole Sandler, Shannyn Moore, Science and History Specials, your Netroots Radio Favorites... and so much more, on right now!
Go ahead, now you can listen while roaming the Big Orange and beyond!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(12-String Ovation Balladeer Astoria, Oregon / copyright Justice Putnam)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
<
Blood on the night soil man en route to the country prison
Blood on the sullen chair, the one that holds you with its pleasure
Blood inside the quartz, the beauty watch, the eye of the guard
Blood on the slope of names & the tattoos hidden
Blood on the Virgin, behind the veils,
Behind—in the moon angel's gold oracle hair
What blood is this, is it the blood of the worker rat?
Is it the blood of the clone governor, the city maid?
Why does it course in s's & z's?
Blood on the couch, made for viewing automobiles & face cream
Blood on the pin, this one going through you without any pain
Blood on the screen, the green torso queen of slavering hearts
Blood on the grandmother's wish, her tawdry stick of Texas
Blood on the daughter's breast who sews roses
Blood on the father, does anyone remember him, bluish?
Blood from a kitchen fresco, in thick amber strokes
Blood from the baby's right ear, from his ochre nose
What blood is this?
Blood on the fender, in the sender's shoe, in his liquor sack
Blood on the street, call it Milagro Boulevard, Mercy Lanes #9
Blood on the alien, in the alligator jacket teen boy Juan
There is blood, there, he says
Blood here too, down here, she says
Only blood, the Blood Mother sings
Blood driving miniature American queens stamped into rage
Blood driving rappers in Mercedes blackened & whitened in news
Blood driving the snare-eyed professor searching for her panties
Blood driving the championship husband bent in Extreme Unction
Blood of the orphan weasel in heat, the Calvinist farmer in wheat
Blood of the lettuce rebellion on the rise, the cannery worker's prize
Blood of the painted donkey forced into prostitute zebra,
Blood of the Tijuana tourist finally awake & forced into pimp sleep again
It is blood time, Sir Terminator says,
It is blood time, Sir Simpson winks,
It is blood time, Sir McVeigh weighs.
Her nuclear blood watch soaked, will it dry?
His whitish blood ring smoked, will it foam?
My groin blood leather roped, will it marry?
My wife's peasant blood spoked, will it ride again?
Blood in the tin, in the coffee bean, in the maquila oración
Blood in the language, in the wise text of the market sausage
Blood in the border web, the penal colony shed, in the bilingual yard
Crow blood blues perched on nothingness again
fly over my field, yellow-green & opal
Dog blood crawl & swish through my sheets
Who will eat this speckled corn?
Who shall be born on this Wednesday war bed?
Blood in the acid theater, again, in the box office smash hit
Blood in the Corvette tank, in the crack talk crank below
Blood boat Navy blood glove Army ventricle Marines
in the cookie sex jar, camouflaged rape whalers
Roam & rumble, investigate my Mexican hoodlum blood
Tiny blood behind my Cuban ear, wine colored & hushed
Tiny blood in the death row tool, in the middle-aged corset
Tiny blood sampler, tiny blood, you hush up again, so tiny
Blood in the Groove Shopping Center,
In blue Appalachia river, in Detroit harness spleen
Blood in the Groove Virus machine,
In low ocean tide, in Iowa soy bean
Blood in the Groove Lynch mob orchestra,
South of Herzegovina, south, I said
Blood marching for the Immigration Patrol, prized & arrogant
Blood spawning in the dawn break of African Blood Tribes, grimacing
& multiple—multiple, I said
Blood on the Macho Hat, the one used for proper genuflections
Blood on the faithful knee, the one readied for erotic negation
Blood on the willing nerve terminal, the one open for suicide
Blood at the age of seventeen
Blood at the age of one, dumped in a Greyhound bus
Blood mute & autistic & cauterized & smuggled Mayan
& burned in border smelter tar
Could this be yours? Could this item belong to you?
Could this ticket be what you ordered, could it?
Blood on the wheel, blood on the reel
Bronze dead gold & diamond deep. Blood be fast.
-- Juan Felipe Herrera
"Blood on the Wheel"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Voices and Soul appears on Black Kos Tuesday's Chile; poetry chosen and critiqued by Black Kos Poetry Editor Justice Putnam.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(Cut Stones and Arch St Ceneri, France / copyright Justice Putnam)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Question: Who is your audience? What are you here for?
Answer: Tribal Alliances, Heart-felt Convictions, Passionate Reason, Random Abandon, Sustainable Civility and a kiss; to comfort the sad and the mad Ones; the Ones roaming the International section of the American Supermarket at night; or roaming the neglected streets looking for an angry malaprop to sink their teeth into; the Ones who seek without seeking and learn as much as they teach; the Ones who embrace and kiss and embrace again; the Ones who sing the song of the city and the ballads of the forest; the Ones who chant the rhythm of the sea and hum the melody of the desert; the Ones who sing the prayer of Her name and Her name is the World. Yes, those are the Ones. -- JP
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(Man, Girl and Broken Window Klamath Falls, Oregon / copyright Justice Putnam)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Okiciyap (we help) is a 501(c)(3) non-profit organization, your donation should be tax deductible. Okiciyap, located on the Cheyenne River Reservation in South Dakota, is working to provide a food pantry, youth center, K-12 educational support, GED & Lakota as a 2nd language class support for youth and adults. The word Okiciyap is Lakota for "we help."
The Daily Kos Fundraising for Okiciyap group was formed to support the pantry. More information is available at the Okiciyap diaries published here at Daily Kos.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So that explains it... !
Sunlight and Water Pitcher Muir Beach / copyright Justice Putnam
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
... Or does it?
(Holy Bible and 3 in 1 Oil Berkeley, California / copyright Justice Putnam)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(Rail Road Crossing, Sonoma California / copyright Justice Putnam)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Many heroes lived before Agamemnon, but they are all unmourned, and consigned to oblivion, because they had no bard to sing their praises."
-- Horace
"Still the race of hero spirits pass the lamp from hand to hand."
-- Charles Kingsley
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I could
Remember
The days
When innocence
Was blowing
Like across
A Van Gogh
Meadow
Caressing the
Hillsides and woods
With a
Fragrant
Shimmering
Color.
Innocence
Rising
Above the
Vulgarity
In which the
Existence
Of nearly every
Individual
Is spent.
But I had become
Bound by guilt
And dubious
Of the truth.
I came to believe
That in a sense
Innocence
Was the same
As failing
Holding onto
Innocence
Meant becoming
Dog-lipped
And stranded
In the park
Alone.
I came to believe
That the measure
Of love
Was the amount
Of emotional
Hurt
I could survive.
Not quite
Like a crushed
Butterfly
Picked apart
By a colony of ants
But I had often
Cut my finger
From the beauty
Of a long-stemmed rose.
So I realized
In those final moments
What had actually
Happened
My life was
A series of patterns
A self created
Maze that offered
No escape
So overwhelming
In its
Awesome-ness
That I was
Incapacitated
By its weight
I had no
Resiliency
Left to survive
I punctured
Myself
With my own
Pursuit of
Beauty.
Again
And again
I had sought
Compassion
And heart-pure
Connection
Between the legs
Of Beauty
Only to make
Visible
My own
Impure
Weakness of heart.
I would
Give up.
I would
Let sadness
String itself
Between my fingers
And memory
Became
A fading
Melody.
(Portland, Oregon and Los Angeles, California 1978)
(from: Part 3 "And Memory Became A Fading Melody")
© 2006 by Justice Putnam
and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Rest in Peace Aaron Swartz
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(Morning Fog And Surf, Muir Beach, California / copyright Justice Putnam)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~