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 Monday 19 August 9pm to Midnight Pacific Edition of The Justice Department: Musique sans Frontieres
~~ "Her Desire Immaculate In The Moment" ~~
1 - Gillian Welch -- "One More Dollar"
2 - Abigail Washburn -- "Sometimes"
3 - Crooked Still -- "Come On In My Kitchen"
4 - Carolina Chocolate Drops -- "Leaving Eden"
5 - Grateful Dead -- "Brokedown Palace"
6 - The Horseflies -- "The Drunkard's Lone Child"
7 - First Aid Kit -- "When I Grow Up"
Station Break
8 - Russian Red -- "Just Like a Wall"
9 - Woods -- "Death Rattles"
10 - Little Axe -- "Ride On"
11 - Thievery Corporation -- "La Femme Parallel"
12 - Francis Cabrel -- "La Corrida"
13 - Gipsy Kings -- "Trista Pena"
Station Break
14 - Joan Baez -- "Bachianas Brasileiras No 5 Aria"
15 - Ennio Morricone -- "Malena"
16 - Vangelis - "Song Of The Seas"
17 - Colour Haze -- "Aquamaria"
18 - Porno For Pyros -- "Bali Eyes"
19 - The Budos Band -- "King Cobra"
Station Break
20 - Vanilla Fudge -- "Season Of The Witch"
21 - Violent Femmes -- "Kiss Off"
23 - Hungry Lucy -- "Storm"
24 - Kroke -- "The Sounds of a Vanishing World"
25 - Garaj Mahal -- "Hindi Gumbo"
26 - Victor Démé -- "Djon Maya"
Station Break
27 - Jai Uttal and the Pagan Love Orchestra -- "Corner"
28 - Sleepy Sun -- "Sandstorm Woman"
29 - Tinariwen -- "Ere Tasfata Adounia"
30 - Mahmoud Ahmed -- "Era Mela Mela"
31 - Emeralds -- "Now You See Me"
Station Break
32 - Os Mutantes -- "Bat Macumba"
33 - Yatu -- "La Luna"
34 - Poncho Sanchez -- "Besame Mama"
35 - Sabrina Malheiros -- "Cade Voce"
36 - New Trolls -- "Paolo E Francesca"
37 - Anna Caram -- "Agua de Beber"
Netroots Radio is there for ya, baby!
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(12-String Ovation Balladeer Astoria, Oregon / copyright Justice Putnam)
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Heart, oh heart,
I sit here writing your name
on pieces of paper,
folded, hidden, misplaced . . .
found again.
There is the element of saying
and there is the element of making:
one needn’t choose.
I am singing the dream out from the ice,
asking it to carry me
like a horse or a river, down and away.
This day, here in paned-glass sun:
the young waitress shaking out her apron
and retying it flat across her stomach—
a bit of vanity—her hair swept off her neck,
crash of a milk bottle
on the granite counter, cream
spread in a mild pool toward the rim,
and the roots of habit and longing
briefly seized by the mind.
So noisy here! The sound echoes
out of years, brought to this
showing forth, unrehearsed.
It seems we wake
and find ourselves repeating,
embodying the ancient gestures
by which we recognize
ourselves completed.
Not one of us could be born
and invent life—it must show through us—
the arm flung in the air, the coffee poured out,
and down the street, someone hurrying by,
head down against the wind.
And a man and a woman
come to an old grief,
carved in them, carved
into them
—the old way of water wearing rock—
by law, and the hatred
between them is equal
to the hope neither will release.
Each wants to be whole,
to embody all of time, when nothing
in this world is whole, and
this is by law.
When my father said bitterly
to my mother: you have changed,
he meant, without meaning to say,
how she had changed him. A man
holds his head down against the wind.
Yet the wind fills him
with the dust of temples,
the breath of the dead.
The dream of the light
inside the branches—
a gleam of wet, glimmer that is a bud,
the leaf within the bud.
The photographer comes inside
and closes the lens of his camera.
Then he is the lens. Then my eye
is the light. This
is the element of saying.
The young waitress flings a paper cup
behind her, into the trash can.
That is a saying. The cream swirled
into the coffee, the sugar
dissolving, disembodied,
and the body of the manager disappears,
swallowed into a doorway.
The element of making is slow,
uncertain as a temple,
a falling forward, stitching back,
like a stone wall, like the panes in an
arched window, like a repetition
chosen beyond necessity.
Yet somehow we have seen all this before—
the girl in the fur hat
speaking syrup into a phone;
the falseness of her charm
is an ancient imposter, familiar and
therefore true.
A door is opened and falls
closed. Suddenly at every table
someone looks down and is reading—
books, newspapers, calendars,
reading tea leaves, reading bones.
A woman in a periwinkle jacket: I am reading
her shoulders as the day introspects.
In dream the passive construction
and the past perfect tense prevail:
she was being pushed on a swing.
The woman with many television credits
gazes out the window, heavy with years,
forgetting herself, forgetting sorrow,
the false husband, the crippled child,
the old plots forgetting,
and it is suddenly lovely, as free as
something read or dreamed; the young
waitress with sun on her
face—her unblemished face—looks up,
from the middle of eternity, her desire
immaculate in the moment.
When a word is beautiful
above all others—your name—
when a woman appears as a bird of prey
and we turn away,
hoping not to be recognized—oh heart!—
when the light on the branches
flares in a window with no sky,
this is old story reading us, these are springs
from words laid down before
and ahead of us, and in the moment
we are making an answer.
-- Cynthia Huntington
"Dirt Cowboy Café"
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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... !
Sunlight and Water Pitcher Muir Beach / copyright Justice Putnam
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... Or does it?
(Holy Bible and 3 in 1 Oil Berkeley, California / copyright Justice Putnam)
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I took another small sip of water as the next questioner rose, this time by the stacks of French novels. She was cute; red hair, tall, maybe 5'9" or 5'10", well proportioned. Had to be another doctoral student in Comparative Literature at Cal; so even at 24 or 25, was too young for my wandering eye.
"You stated," she stated determinedly, "and I quote; 'Comedy, Poetry and Fiction are only effective and only become Art if there is a Truth behind the humor, the verse and the lie.'"
"Yes," I uttered to fill the small silence.
"In your writing; in your humor, verse and lies, are you telling a Truth about yourself?" she asked, "or are you telling a Truth about the Culture and Society as a whole?"
"Yes," I answered.
--Justice Putnam
"Conversations With The Audience"
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(Rail Road Crossing, Sonoma 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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(Morning Fog And Surf, Muir Beach, California / copyright Justice Putnam)
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