This is from an AP-NORC poll taken between September 11th and 14th, 2020.
Enough of these BS protests already.
This is from an AP-NORC poll taken between September 11th and 14th, 2020.
Enough of these BS protests already.
In the linked graphic, they’re called experiments rather than initiatives, but I’d argue we’re past the experimental stage. As Coleman Hughes put it — and I’m paraphrasing — welfare states are a necessity given that the average person lacks the skills to earn enough in the market to sustain himself and his family.
And that goes for singles, two-earner families and female heads of households as well.
But as these programs proliferate — and they will — my guess is that wherever they’re administered, there will be an accompanying reduction in civil liberties and other freedoms. Why? Because those dependent on others to make ends meet don’t get to negotiate the conditions under which they live. You don’t have leverage on the dole.
. . . in One Image
We’re still in the lead.
But for just how long?
The idea for this series came in my sleep as did many of these poems themselves as well as others like them.
I either dreamt them outright or started writing them as I emerged from sleep, whether from a dream or flat-out unconsciousness.
The genre, then, is STREAM OF UNCONSCIOUSNESS.
REM They say, in REM, The brain persists, Even absent stimulus. Tasked with more Than running us, It does, itself, create. The dreaming brain Declares itself, Spawning stuff from nothing. Some who fear what REM reveals Appeal to martyred gods. JAD, 2018
REM II Giddy and glib, We giggle, Drink gallons, sink galleons, Think gold. Sleek and unruly, Adored by the sun, We glide through these galleys, Dream yachts. No one can stop us, Just yet. As preening as Patton, As savvy as Seuss, As grasping as Monetized Facebook, We scuff it, say fuck it Like Ford. Bend it like Beckham, Sting like Ali, Remember the Gipper, Each play. When hearts break their Silence, Report to themselves, Run smack into Time And its coffins, Are they merely confirming God’s whims? You kidding? They’re roaring unraveled Through REM. Nothing may stop you, The world may not end Though Grant may surrender To Lee. There’s food in those galleys For both Huck and Jim, Now plucked from those tough Middle rounds. Are you ready for REM? We’ll see. JAD, 2018
REM III: For Hem and Hank Scour the hours, Adlibbing your fibs Or troweling the bowels Of invention. Moments, unspooling, Rewind. Muster your gumption, Temper your wit, Shrewdly inch forward, Fall back. Days are now panicked Like horses in flight, Seeing, in hills, White elephants. JAD, 2018
REM V: FADING The season, corrupt In its lushness, Stiffens resistance To change. Tourists don’t notice, Drawn to new sights; Worlds in transition Don’t count. Adderley, Braxton, Lloyd and Ornette Rally my mood With their groove, Music like novels That most never read, Few even skim or Peruse. Back on the pavements, Roaming the grid, Yet, conscious of Almost no traction, I’m parsing the signage, Encoded with cues, No longer intended For me. JAD, 2018
IX: STREAMING Night Lyrical larcenists, Low riders laved, Looters still lean In the glass – Better to languish Than brandish your past. Your felonies Mark you as fools. Accept it. Heralded actors, Aware of their roles, Perform in excess Of direction. Bald simulation, Their hyper-real goal, Presumes we’re not Acting as well. But we are. Monochrome minders Of monarchs removed Vet recondite Rulers of night; Reveal in an instant – Negating their charge – The secrets at large In their hearts. No quarter. Snippets of lingering Wake-walking REM, Remnants of roguish Redress, Reason unclenching But visibly bent – Rollick as filters Dissolve. Step lively. Day Over the water On narrowing strands, Corsicans welcome The sun, Pleasures awaiting Or dimly recalled, Yellow umbrellas Unfurling. Shall we swim? Monaco rises, The crags in its cliffs Re-sculpted by Afternoon light, Gilding the privileged, Resplendent below, The divas still Dishing at lunch. Good hunting. Miles expended For aisles in coach Seems hardly the Wisest exchange. And, yet, we survive it, Rely on man’s wings, Submit to ill will, Deny it. Let us pray. The evening progresses, Primes you for more, Escorts you in style, Then ends. You’ve been to the mountain; The mountain, to you. That feeling, unsummoned, Remains. Allow me. JAD, 2018
REM XI Blazes that blacken The bowers of time May cinder the Portals of mind. Yet, who called for Binary choices – Genders, schisms, Ruptures, divides? Who let the genies Run wild? Even as men are Morally lacking, Women are groping, Politically. JAD, 2018
REM VIRUS Moments that cling To the surface, Others that foil Escape, Winter-numb moments That signify what? Death-of-the-world Afternoons. Reason resurgent, Encircled; Passion departed, Recalled; Tremors of freedom Too fleeting to sense, Hustlers who tend To end up . . . Misers embroiled In law suits, Monsters imperiled By grace, Martyrs recanting A moment too late, Mercy in makeshift Retreat. Innocence leaping From towers, Barricades eaten By rust, Fatalists falling For all-night reprieves, Gamblers at odds With their luck. Women empowered By grievance, Power ennobled By grief, Grief unacknowledged Infecting the heart, Hearts unaware, Torn apart. Actors uncertain of timing, Judges unconscious Of crime, Pundits unlettered, Unfettered, uncouth, Children unburdened By truth. Futures redacted By prophets, Poets untested By pain, Fortunes invested In merchandised death, Cultures that squander What’s left. Statesmen who count On factotums, Bankers who cater To thieves, Mentors who pander To miscreant minds, Maskers of masses Deceived. Sickness that passes Like sadness, Fitness that marches With flare, Panic that rambles Like armies in flight, Fighters reluctant To fight. Moments that crack Through the surface, Others that offer Escape, Winter-sprung moments That signify much. Birth-of-the-world Afternoons. JAD, 2019
THIS Is it merely a chain Of distraction? Maneuvers intended To saturate time? Are we featureless force-fields Whimsically formed, Improbable fictions – Or what? Is it solely dependent On context? A semblance of substance We sense at a glance – Eternal, ephemeral, Emotive, extreme – Some prism we Dimly perceive? Can we ever explain Its beginnings – Before it, without it, An end beyond time – Admit that we’d rather Dissemble? Do we relish such use Of our nerve? Does the panic it triggers Confuse us, Deceived as we are, By regret? Are we risen or fallen Or running in place? Is it solace we seek Or forgiveness? JAD, 2019
PHANTOMS They turn up from nowhere – At random, in spurts – Or cycle through once And are done. They lurk at the Edges of sleep; React in a vacuum, Say nothing of note, Yet look at me hard Then away. That I no longer Move them is clear. What passes between us, In silencing code, In subtleties now Misconstrued, Adds to my longing A searing regret, Rebukes me for what I’ve become. Initially fetching – Real for a time – They wither like passion, Recede. JAD, 2019
REM XV REVELRY rooms with RANCOR. Think rigid, partisan POLES. MENDACITY threatens To ply them with lies. CONSCIENCE, stricken, Prevents it. MANIC DEPRESSION Powers ahead, Urged by its twin, BIPOLAR. AWARENESS is growing, THERAPY helps. Grudging CONTRITION kicks in. JAD, 2019
REM XVII Scrambled signals feint and dart Beyond the reach of force. Sidewalks whisper caution. Time elopes with happenstance, Gives circumstance the slip. Weary wonder wanes. Some see cyber paradise; Some, complete control. Few who look see clearly. Cyber-savvy bombers thrive, Stable systems scream. Skies exposed, explode. JAD, 2019
FOR THE FALLEN 1. I had black and white Dubonnet flashbacks; Spied cases of Schaefer, A few empty kegs; Reflected on moon-driven East River currents, The tourists, Their holiday hopes. Was it sailors defending Times Square? I lost it, recovered, Repressed my misgivings, Desensitized circumcised Fear. 2. Sorry, Post-Moderns, Your referents are gone; Bankers, the same with Your credits; Political theorists, Your theories are lies; As are, biblical scholars, Your yarns. Or so I advised A French tourist, Waving my ravings Like writs from a court, Then naming my 21 friends. 3. Full Metal Jacket Kept airing all week, They needed to Tee up the mourning. Cowboy and 8-Ball And Doc Jay still died, Though Joker communed With them each. He knew how they’d died . . . But for what? I had black and white Dubonnet flashbacks, Pictured the fallen, Those kegs. JAD, 2019
THOSE 21 FRIENDS Forty-three years in Manhattan, and the Count stands at 21 friends. One, maybe two, are still here. Through conflict, rejection, Betrayal and death – Changes of venue or heart – Time has deleted my past. As I circle Times Square, This hyper-clear night, At the start of a Cool, grudging June, The sadness I buried And thought I’d escaped, Shadows me Shaping these lines. JAD, 2019
WHAT WAS IT? Did anyone know What anyone knew? Or cared in the meantime Or felt? Was anyone paying Attention? The moment, regardless, Had come. We pondered the causes, The absence of skills, The shortage of time And equipment, But in spite of our passion – Or maybe because – No one remembered The drill. We enquired of experts, Consulted with touts, Wrote letters and Promised to speak. But no one was able To offer a theory On what the real issue Might be. We lobbied for changes, Collected receipts, Exhumed then reburied Old tropes. In light of some gestures That hadn’t occurred, Gifts were exchanged Then returned. We traveled to Georgia, Sojourned in New York, Considered both Butte and D.C. Yet, none of our partners Seemed keen to engage. We almost recruited Quebecers. Was anyone thinking? Did context still count? Was meaning a Meaningful goal? We caucused for hours, Recruited old hands. What was it? We never found out. JAD, 2019
CONVINCED Impaled by sleep, its Quartering blade – The armies of night Ripping through me -- I awaken, each morning, Agape at my wounds, Depleted by dread, Undone. As I lie there surprised That I’ve made it again – Often, a grim Thirty minutes – I accept that, by now, I’ll succumb. These bloody, long nights Have convinced me. JAD, 2019
PLANET REM: IT NEARS What crisis crouches, Camouflaged, Beside this foul canal? Which screeds attempt to screen it? Are cattle calls Conducted here or Merely kosher kills? Which scribes instill ill will? What cyber-sexed Semantics reign Through signals celled and sold? Are softer-subtext Matadors Now flashing redder red? What victims feigning virtue, Dream of shaming fame? What carnage simmers Near the beach, What landing craft approach? What sabotaging bureaucrats, Militia-sped, have fled? What amplified Resistance builds, Who holds the road to Queens? The effigies of Aftermath – Impaled piñatas all – Hang from sacred banyan trees Beyond the call to arms. Have crones surmised This sudden end? What cavalcades await? What convoluted Contretemps Of forward French design, Cloned to cleanse Identity And freeze dry Palestine, Has ever flummoxed force? This time, blood may flow. Waves of evening Etiquette No longer breed finesse. Former favored sycophants Compete for cruder tropes. When did life become like this – Is panic in the house? The moment covets clues. Bottom-feeders lunge for air, The middle kingdoms fall, The hoarding class has Raised the bridge, Rebrands inside the walls. A stanza strangely Clear enough, Declares more than it yields. What mission now Metastasized, Is creeping in our wake? Can all that seems Indelible Resist atomic weight? What hybrid, now unfettered, Is feeling for its pulse? JAD, 2019
REM XXI: FIELD MARSHAL FM: I will wipe the blood From these battlements If you roast me a Chicken on a spit; If you solder my Broken toy soldiers; And build me a Maplewood bar. But I only have Twenty-four hours. Is it future enough For your needs? Though I might sound oblique, I’m determined. Acuity runs In my veins. SGT: The news from the front Is disturbing, sir. There’s mustard in places – It burns up your lungs. And the front, you’ll recall, Has shifted behind us. We’re losing, it seems, Asymmetrically. We’re stacking our powder – And keeping it dry – But we’re too scared to fire For fear of self-hits. The headquartered hackers Have circled their screens. The marines who’ve been Cybered are out. FM: Are you claiming a One-sided fog? Shall I flee to Ibiza, The grottoes of peace? Stroll through the breeze Like an afternoon god? Admonish that fool Whom that woman bamboozled, Rattle my saber And run up the flag – When the masters of Hubris are dying of shame And the Ides of McMansions have come? But then, where is that chicken? I’m starved. JAD, 2019
STATUS REPORT I have floaters, stones, Plaque in my vessels, Traces of Barrett’s Esophagus. While I ponder the Ways I may perish or not, Summer, undaunted, Rolls on. The lout in the White House, His madness his fuse, Erupts with a bomb Thrower’s flare. Determined to shock With the sting of his rancor, He merely revisits His pain. As he battles the fate Of the least of us here – That class self-deprived Of self-worth – He howls like a Sinner in flame. No wonder he craves His own universe. None of this works in The actual world As its actual Workings make clear. Does he not see it’s we Who are sovereign? Fencing with phantoms Just simulates war. He oscillates madly, Turns peace into strife; Relief, into studied Foreboding. The wave lately risen, Collapses, recedes. Rumors of madness Persist. JAD, 2019
NO LONGER MINE Sidelined by time and Cultures reordered, I keep to my Narrowing patch Till, one day, a Silent, subliminal Summons Steers me down born-again streets. What do I think, then, Of stark Hudson Yards, The High Line now slivered By buildings too dense? The Meat Packing District, Its monetized blocks – Did I once go there Only for beef? Trust me, I’ve wondered, But lacking in proof, I seem to be just Passing through. These streets I once wandered And thought of as mine Belong to the Hungrier young. JAD, 2019
P IS FOR POEM The pain that paupers Precedent, That profits paranoia, That plunders perfect Pedigree And pranks each puny punk – Is polling poorer, primed. The pain that plumbs Precocity, That placates peeved Pandora, That primps pretentious Punditry And prunes the pride of prudes – Is pelting perky pines. The pain that punctures Pentecost, That panders to pretenders, That parses prim Presentiment Then pivots, prepossessed – Is prompting pirouettes. The pain that pans Philanthropy, That predicates personas, That plots the path of Predators And paralyzes prayer – Is proofing perjured popes. The pain that pierces Picadors, That plagiarizes prophets, That pasteurizes Perfidy And penalizes pluck – Is preening, plumed or not. The pain that pilfers Paradigms, That pulverizes passion, That poaches pesky Platitudes And parries purer, posed – Is pissing in the pond. JAD, 2019
REM XXII Up-swung, manic – Humping for happy – I tindered each challenge I took, Spiking with saffron, That saccharin swill That flowed from my Chalice-like cup. Did I muster my muses Then pimp them all out? Did I always seek Mollusk-less shells? Was form the one substance I fondled – then flubbed When ransacking Crackerjack love? Cumbered by bunting Of stunted design, Ancestral decline And resentment, I clawed back my talents With talons too thin, Cursing again What I’d done. JAD, 2020
IT'S TIME I’ve hung from that cross – Examine the holes – Extract from your psyche My screams. The image I promised Would neatly evolve Is still taking shape As we speak. But what of those extra- Terrestrials? The ones we’ve awaited So long. Man, if they’re coming, It’s time. JAD, 2020
CONFESSION What have I done But paralyze thought, Encasing stale words In stiff lines. What rhyming conceits Have I practiced? Who has opposed or Deposed me just once? Have I taken myself For a fool? Show me what pretext, What peerless pretense, What pardoner’s penance Precedes me? Have I even the gumption To plead? I’ve swaggered too long Down this beach. My atrophy nears, My maximum range, Recoil has rallied – It’s roaring my way. Can I still master Methods and aims? Truthers and traitors Take terrified turns. Torrents turn turrets To dust. I’m leaning towards lazy Yet lunging towards pain. The East is infected. What fresh West is this? Tomorrows are dwindling. The sun staggers back. Do I fear myself most? I am here. JAD, 2020
THEY'RE FRISKING It isn’t one life but Several, he muses, Then loses his cadence, All notion of time; Roams through reflections Of what’s just occurred, Past splices of image And rhyme. But then, why do the Words come at all? The music meanders Or, muted, just mopes, A muddle of flagging Conviction. There isn’t the hint Of a song. But what of the words? They’re frisking. Who stole the play book, My bacon, a march? Then boosted the Hierophant’s throne? And who took that poke At Spinoza? Whose is this jungle, Its insects and heat? Have I sinned my way Straight to Siam? Will Conrad, my Conrad, Retell us a tale – Narcissus, Nostromo, Typhoon? JAD, 2020
Most of the noise is in the Northeast and on the Pacific Coast, with a smattering of yelps in Chicago.
But it’s still a cancer and has chilled free expression, inhibiting professors from saying bold things. So, no one’s exploring BOLD THOUGHT.
Compounding the damage is GADGET ADDICTION, the worst social poison we’ve known.
The biggest loser?
FEW MOODS I’m now in a Loamier state – Sucking back into Unconsciousness All that I’ve failed To recall. Sleep, that discursive Czarina, Furtive divider And balancer – Sea shanty she-god Of blackouts – Has stuffed me again With her grist. How do I know I can grind it? We regress by Repetitive sequencing, Dizzying circuits Of spirals reversed Into panics of Manic embroidery. With nothing so much As a stich-saving thought, We deem this – surreally – Routine. But with zero recourse To what worked in de Nimes – The genes bleu tradition Forsworn – Our raiment begins To feel cheap. Sleep may launch coyly On gray, loamy days, Flotillas of Salvaging moods. They may pass through this Keyboard, pay duty. But are they, like Britons Rechristened John Bull – Untested, inchoate, Unyoked – More likely to leave Than remain? Few moods afloat Can re-navigate The straits between sleep And this state. JAD 2016
DREAM ON How slowly I list Through these streets, Straining for glimpses Of set pieces past; Of newsstands and Storefronts deceased. Scuttling through seabeds Of tangled greens sheets, I sense where my Right mind resides. Wary of rumors At Boeing’s expense, We stuff it, yet Exit our seats. The aircraft goes down Over France. The A/C is roaring But may have just stopped. The Riverdale bus Has been bombed. Disgusted with August, The dog walkers yelp While the nail shops on Second implode. Koreans are homeless, The shelters full-up And the A/C smells Gutted and charred. Picasso has emailed A limerick to Sartre. Do I pee now or Fall back to sleep? JAD, 2016
UP BROADWAY Like sleek silver bullets, Their roles therapeutic, The cars of the 3 Shorten space, Replacing each moment Of ceaseless summation With speed-driven visions Of less. Speed as it gathers On rails to the Bronx, Rescinds every claim To attachment, Rejects and dismantles Each logos and nous, While voiding all wagers On God. Mantras once dulling, Adopted in pain, Rejected in fits Of denial – All of them telling – Have spoken as one. Look to the breath As your fulcrum. Ranged on these benches The length of this car, We clatter ahead On the El – Some count out stations Or charmed by their phones, Hide from disquiet Or grief. JAD, 2016
MINDFUL Mindful of fear and Blank meditation, Of rain in the Forecast and sky; Mindful of buses that Muscle through traffic, Of trains that derail In the Bronx. Mindful of backache – The stretches that work – Of insights in Washington Square; Of loners and playwrights, The stacks at The Strand, Of moments recovered Then lost. Mindful of baseball, The sun’s crucial light, The young in their Cantering freedom; Mindful of shadows Remorselessly cast; Of veterans – the Vacant and dead. Mindful of patterns And themes without end, The dotage of Heroes defamed; Mindful of clerics And seers oversold When mindful of that Side of night. Mindful of mercy, Of mastodon tusks, Bukowski’s best poems, Dead freedoms; Mindful of leases, Of ferries in fog, Of evil that Mortifies light. Mindful of mindful, As mind is of mind, I’m mindful of Mind as in mine. Mindful of soil, Of water, the breath, I’m mindful I’m Mindful of much. JAD, 2017
OUR SUMMUM BONUM Heaven is Shit, man, This sounds good Until it can’t be found. If hope’s for sale Through penance, Fear upholds our hells. God is summum bonum Yearning, Wails in ancient Tongues, Tales that charm the Anxious heart, Convert its faithless Beating. What soothes us best We bless. JAD, 2017
I SING THE CITY INFECTED The evening’s final Scene complete, The after-pavements teem, Bathed in blinding L-E-D’s In hyper-clear HD. Symbols, sirens, centipedes Compete down fevered streets, Secrete their slag And sabotage, Infect unconscious meat. Silt from leaded excess-flows Collects in fetid pools. Raw rejoinders amplified Rebuke uncertain minds. Regrouped, the waxing Wage-less wait; The waning ageless wilt. Beneath the hum of Rumored plots, The jumbo slabs of waste, The odes to tech and Rectitude, The rape of inner space – Swollen moments quake. JAD, 2017
WHEN STREETS DON'T REMEMBER The flattening rays Of the sun as it sinks Run the length of Manhattan’s ranked streets As I roam between rivers, Acknowledge dead-ends, Remember the missing, Reflect. I recall James Salter’s Clean sentences, Lucid and bright On the page. He’s left us distraught And so has Sam Shepard – A Donne-like Diminishment double. The face-lifted towers That crown Bryant Park Suggest, to the faithful, Renewal. Renewal, I ask, On what basis -- When streets don’t remember The best voices lost. JAD, 2017
SELF-INTEREST The messaging, scripted And crafted, Showed a need to Excel through control. Friends served as comrades In crisis or guilt; Others, as usable Tools. Women, too eager Or well beyond reach, Were neither the game Nor its goal – Foes on occasion, Muses no less – But mainly the ground Where we played. Grinders more guarded, More suited to trade, Focused their efforts On profit; Followed their clients Through cycles and spurts; Thought only in Rates of return. How did they temper Their urges and whims, Subsist in conventional Lives – Courting promoters Who saw them as fools, Shouldered no risk, Cashed out? JAD, 2017
ON THE PHONE Believe me, it works . . . That’s just what it feels like – Win-hattan freezing In Man-ter . . . No, you’re the same. You always liked playing – Splicing together Rogue syllables. Sorry, I blanked. They’re Ripping down buildings? Ripping them where – Downtown . . . ? All I see standing Are vacancies. Cyber-struck cyphers – Or what don’t I get? Remember old Jack and Neal Cassidy . . . ? Don’t overlook they knew Time. Knew it like . . . pardon . . . ? Buildings like shards? Only the new ones . . . I see. But slicing through what – Old neighborhoods . . . ? Really, no kidding. I know! Streets that resemble Scenes from bad dreams, Patterns with pieces that clash. Do you find now that Sleep is exhausting . . . ? You do. I find I Awaken in pain . . . You what? Well, don’t be Surprised if I’m not. It all came together In Madison Square. Not in a rush of Awareness at all . . . A panic attack . . . In reverse . . . Wait till I tell you, okay . . . ? Mainly surreal, yet serene . . . Intriguing as get-out, A sense of return, Grudging in places, Yet, plainly a gas . . . Height of the buildings, The view. You see, what I see Aren’t memories. They’re Memories of memories, Instead. Flashes of flashbacks . . . Had them, yourself . . . ? Remembrance is all I recall . . . No way . . . ! Hustled up 6th To Rock Center. Checked out St. Patrick’s, The shoppers, the Tree – I’m Searching, I guess, for my ghost. Felt that I’d crafted some Workman-like lines on how We imagine New York . . . Why say I felt? I lost them. Thought I’d recall them, Forgot they were gone. How stupid not Writing them down . . . All of them cadenced, Broke where they should . . . Miss them? Forget it, I’m pissed! Happened as well in A cab in the Strand, Sitting in traffic, hard rain. Flying all over, Writing on planes, Living two lives, I knew Time. Next time, let’s talk About you. JAD, 2018
JOINED 1. Beauty viewed through Numbing pain, Now shines with duller Promise. Like clenching fingers, Freshly stitched, I bleed when Stretched too far. 2. Light advancing – Watch for signs: Those richer tones, Come April! – Ensures its own Reversal When clocks fall back Again. JAD, 2018
THESE, THESE AND MORE These curdled responses So crudely delivered, These mercies withheld From the meek. These harbors of heartache Revealed to the sighted, These heartbreaks unsealed In the night. These writs and petitions So subtly encircling, These treasons reserved For elites. These calls to the calloused To hustle the hapless, These heroes now Humbled or culled. These lusts of the moment So deeply embedded, These calumnies Cadenced in bursts. These cavernous lapses Devoid of all purpose, These pointed Omissions and voids. These truculent tenors Eschewing the high notes, These crooners adlibbing The words. These commandeered missions Rebranded as movements, These cultural markers Effaced. These limitless reaches, Forbidden, forsaken; These gambits and rescues Delayed. These tremors and shudders Of innocent dreamers, These maestros serene Unto death. JAD, 2018
WE AMERICANS We’ve clung to the traces Of lies once believed – These spasms of Star-spangled spin – Then ditching forensics, Adherence to facts, Licensed fresh liars, Nonplussed. High on the mesas Of pasteurized zeal, We’ve roasted our martyrs On spits, Lip-synching birdsong, Regressing in tweets, We warblers of Camouflaged fraud. Racing through stages Of cauterized grief, We’ve sanctified Ripples of hope, Skirting the moment Of tide-turning doubt, Dividing awareness In two. Heartened by hucksters, Their halcyon chants, We’ve glowered at Sages and seers While heard in the markets; On cable, the street: Proof that our moment Has passed. JAD, 2018
Well, no herd immunity solution in Sweden for this.
And note that, except for Slovenia, the weather isn’t first-rate in any of these countries. I’ve always felt that there’s an inverse correlation between suicide rates and sunlight.
This is nothing short of payback, and it’s grounded in nonsense.
They’re asking whites to shed their identities and belief systems, much of which have nothing to do with any of this. And who, but for those with 10+ years of psychotherapy, is capable of significant change, anyway?
Only in cases of vengeance do we see this degree of unreason and intolerance.
Yes, let’s all return to Old Testament and Koranic concepts of justice and see where it takes us. Where there’s collectivism, there’s collective punishment, the thing Palestinians accused Israelis of. And rightly so.
But, then, are those same white Americans who criticized Israelis for this now going to endorse it as some African-American sainted prerogative simply because whites are guilty of being white and, therefore, privileged? When did the US adopt Maoist notions of identity?
Boy, don’t the shoe move from foot to foot!
And, apparently, one shoe fits all. Don’t forget for one moment that this is less about justice and more about POWER.
. . . by Country
Don’t look now, but we’re a partly flawed democracy.
But, then, if you’ve been awake the last four years, you knew that.