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Justice Putnam Self-Portrait / copyright Justice Putnam

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 2 March 14 8pm to 9pm Pacific Edition of The Justice Department: Musique sans Frontieres

 ~~ "The War We Make Inside" ~~

1 - War -- "Slippin' Into Darkness"
2 - Sly and The Family Stone -- "Family Affair"
3 - Counting Crows -- "Colorblind"
4 - Living Colour -- "Burned Bridges"
5 - Nina Simone -- "Wild is the Wind"
6 - Michael Franti and Spearhead -- "Soulshine"

Station Break

7 - Alison Krauss -- "Can't Find My Way Home"
8 - Santana -- "Europa"
9 - Miriam Makeba -- "Mbube"
10 - Mamadou Diabaté  -- "Tunga"
11 - Red Hot Chili Peppers -- "Castles Made Of Sand"
12 - Dengue Fever -- "Uku"

Who luvs ya, baby?

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The Netroots Radio Player








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Daily Kos Radio, Vintage James Baldwin, Labor History, Native American Documentaries, Flashpoints, Free Speech Radio News, Democracy Now, The David Packman Show, The Union Edge, Angie Coiro, The Professional Left with Driftglass and Blue Gal, West Coast Cookbook & SpeakEasy 6 Minute Recipes, Jim Hightower, 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!

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(12-String Ovation Balladeer Astoria, Oregon / copyright Justice Putnam)

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And if all those who meet or even
hear of you become witness to what you are—

a white country of blight beneath the last snows of
spring. Could we remain quiet on earth

and bear it, the war we make inside
what is—it’s a long time to be here, to be still,

to feel the rot inside now—bone-scrap, char, sheets of stars
at the edge of a field where we are once again

taken from ourselves. Could we remain here,
witness to grief, one last bright dire call-and-reply,

each birdsong or siren extinguished where some
trueness abides, some portion we have lost our right

to claim or know. It comes into any mind that would
perceive it, leaf-rot, speech-rot, the deliberate ribcage

of the deer, these abrupt chalk cliffs over which
the confused animals fling themselves, and you,

obscure, receive no response that is not suffered
as the days grow long and distortions

come to seem the natural course of things—
what trees whose creatures stray into space—

and they find they cannot land though the eyelid
struggles open—no answer, no resolution—

a window opened to the mute green world,
weedy and driftless, a wind drilling rain, dirt,

the parameters of uncertainty, of hope,
what we might be against what we have done,

bees crawling through the lips of the one
who would say the earth turned into sour flesh—

What strange rooms, what soundless movement of sky
over desert where the flesh again is beaten

and the emptiness extends itself while some old man
looks on, a raptor in waiting, the sand-field

around them blown thinly toward sun—no longer
ourselves in the afternoons, evenings,

weak, vague, clutched at the mouth—
because we did nothing, because we lost count.

-- Joanna Klink
"What Is (War)"

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Voices and Soul appears on Black Kos Tuesday's Chile; poetry chosen and critiqued by Black Kos Poetry Editor Justice Putnam.

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(Cut Stones and Arch St Ceneri, France / copyright Justice Putnam)

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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

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(Man, Girl and Broken Window Klamath Falls, Oregon / copyright Justice Putnam)

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(Can you help folks in need heat their homes and cook their food on the Rosebud and Pine Ridge Reservations. Navajo has an important diary posted with all the particulars. Even a small amount can work towards building the minimum.

Could you please help?)

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So that explains it... !

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Sunlight and Water Pitcher Muir Beach / copyright Justice Putnam

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... Or does it?

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(Holy Bible and 3 in 1 Oil Berkeley, California / copyright Justice Putnam)

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(Rail Road Crossing, Sonoma California / copyright Justice Putnam)

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(Farm Road and Running Fence, Olema, California / copyright Justice Putnam)

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"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

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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

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Rest in Peace Aaron Swartz

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(Morning Fog And Surf, Muir Beach, California / copyright Justice Putnam)

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Originally posted to The Justice Department on Netroots Radio.com on Sun Mar 02, 2014 at 07:45 PM PST.

Also republished by Netroots Radio, Black Kos community, LatinoKos, and Protest Music.

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