Jessica Gonzalez who leads the National Hispanic Media Coalition’s legal and policy work: As US Court of Appeals rules against net neutrality, internet service providers will restrict access for communities of color.
It’s been a bit of a gap week or two, since pining in with this sort of catharsis, but some of us schmucks have to make some really lousy money and attend to some really rotten job hunting in a time of pure delusion, all the while that white noise buzzing, the white static noise of the mush of NPR and mainstream mindlessness and the BS of labor stats and economists who deserve what the SEALs and Obama said what happened to Osama (right, US punk prez, directs US amped-up murder incorporated to shoot to kill, ask no questions later, I don’t need no stinking badge, and then burial at sea, hea
In a small park next to the National Security Agency in Fort Meade, Md., signs explain rules about photographs one can take — and illustrate the kind of photo one isn’t allowed to take.
Plantman left The City to tend the Tree of Life out in The Nation and witness the appearance of The Missing Girl.
Cute, really, calling it, Surveillance Valley, that abomination of elitist, mostly Zionist, and certainly white male-dominated reverse Darwinism IT bootcamp, where the most hostile sub-species exists to shred all human agency. These are Ivy League/Stanford/Georgia Tech types, very strange, indeed, humans who are possessed of the most puerile of spirit, the most usury, psychologically defective, narcissistic, Oedipal hearts on earth, and they just keep that lie going. Silicon Valley my ass!
The Solution Is Not Working
Personal visit after breakfast by The Man himself. Dr. Creed, eyebrows a-flutter, glum.
“When can I get out of here?” I asked.
“When your blood-count stabilizes, you’ll be able to go home and rest.”
“When can I lose this albatross,” I pointed to the machine, my ball-and-chain.
“Give it a couple of days.”
“You asked me about transfusions. Are you going to give me a transfusion?”
Eye brows in overdrive, he paused, sighed.
“The Solution is not working. I’m sorry.”
“What? Then what?”
Triage nurse asked I’d been drinking.
“Tremendously. A great deal,” The Bakery Girl said.
“What’s your name?” The Nurse asked me.
“Ra.”
“Okay, Ray. Let’s check your vitals,” said The Nurse.
Plantman in Egypt to save Pharaoh’s ailing Date Palm. Papyrus. Literature is only corrupt as its paper. Important plant priest, celebrated immortal. Statue myths. Royal garden. Scissors bucket. Ancient days, too distant to count. Moses in baby booties.
“His temperature is one hundred and six,” said The Nurse.
“Holy shit,” said The Bakery Girl.
Julie Wark has written a manifesto for justice. Simply titled The Human Rights Manifesto, her book examines the UN Declaration of Human Rights and compares it to the current situation. In doing so, it is clear that we as a species have failed.
Plantman was surprised, but not shocked, to find The Mayor’s office decorated entirely with imitation plants. He brushed wax leaves with his trusty feather-duster. He tested the moisture-content of tinsel soil, clipped plastic Ivy with imaginary scissors.
The Mayor sat quietly at his enormous desk, playing with a wooden sculpture of a bull with the sword of an unseen matador jutting from its side.
At last the Mayor spoke.
“You’ve been a very naughty Plantman, Plantman.”
“I? How so?”
“I know all about you.”
“Everyone knows me. I’m Plantman.”
The Dissenting Judge, frail, old, overwhelmed, bored with data, welcomed the coming of Plantman.
“You are fortunate, Plantman. Your life is lived tending fruits of the earth. I am beset with human cares. . . “
“You look tired,” Plantman said.
