It ain't the immigrants that take our jobs, I know quite well . . .

When iHeartMedia announced this month it would fire hundreds of workers across the country, the radio conglomerate said the restructuring was critical to take advantage of its “significant investments … in technology and artificial intelligence.” In a companywide email, chief executive Bob Pittman said the “employee dislocation” was “the unfortunate price we pay to modernize the company.”
Drew Harwell. Washington Post.

It ain't the immigrants that take our jobs, I know quite well;

it's automated robots that make bread lines start to swell.

Dislocated workers find their jobs done by A.I.

Algorithm dj's and then cyborg pizza pie!

Factories and offices will quiet soon become;

automatons accomplish more, and never even hum.

Doctors, and then lawyers, and professors by the score,

will soon be clerking at the counters of the Dollar Store.

Have a microchip into your brain pan deeply twined --

then a steady job you will most positively find!

Republicans Snub Impeachment Witnesses, Guaranteeing a Trump Acquittal

WASHINGTON — The Senate brought President Trump to the brink of acquittal on Friday of charges that he abused his power and obstructed Congress, as Republicans voted to block consideration of new witnesses and documents in his impeachment trial and shut down a final push by Democrats to bolster their case for the president’s removal.
(by Nicholas Fandos & Michael D. Shear. NYT)

The President of Cockaigne has been summoned to a trial

by a Congress boiling with high factions and low bile.

Some of them have whetted all their knives with horrid care,

hoping they can scalp him and take home a piece of hair.

Others cry 'injustice' and proclaim there is a plot

to railroad the poor President with paltry tommyrot.

So a big shot justice of the peace steps in the mess,

flapping his black robes just like a raven in distress.

Witnesses are shuffled like a deck of cards, but stay!

They don't seem to testify in any useful way. 

All their testimony is recorded and ignored;

it runs on like a river and soon ev'ryone gets bored.

Congress sits so long and hard that rumps turn into stone;

way up in the gallery there's nothing but ozone.

People in the streets are seething, but their only goal

is to purchase chips and beer -- then watch the Super Bowl.

The President of Cockaigne in his palace broods and tweets,

and when he sees a journalist he steps on them with cleats.

He knows he'll be acquitted by his toadies loyal and true,

and yet he starts to gibber as if sniffing lots of glue.

He'll take Cockaigne to war, he says, and then he says he shan't;

his logic is as pretzeled as that stuff by Manny Kant.

And when the trial is over all Cockaigne will breathe a sigh,

and nothing will have changed except more Democrats will cry.

Snail Mail Rides Again!

As people become numb to targeted digital ads that follow them across social media and into their email inboxes, some high-tech marketers are turning to a surprisingly old-school approach to cut through the noise: snail mail.
(Heather Kelly. Washington Post.)

Litter letters in your box

flourish like a clump of phlox.

Growing ever more urbane,

they will drive you quite insane

with prodigious insight, cuz

they now know what makes you buzz.

From your tweets and texts and posts

they invade your mind like ghosts;

making absolutely sure

you will get the right brochure --

then start on a buying spree

that will lead to bankruptcy.

Curse you, USPS staff,

For delivering such chaff!

Poets are more changeable than the wind.

Poets are more changeable than the wind.

And less dependable.

And always broke.

And always complaining about it.

And always secretly envious of those who

Manage to live wisely and prudently and 

So can be comfortably well off, even if

Their house is falling down around their 

Ears.

Never trust a rich artist -- they have sold out.

Except for Norman Rockwell.

And the Beatles.

Being poor is interesting and fun,

Until it becomes a habit.

So get to know people who are just 

Starting to experience poverty.

Then dump them when they can’t 

Get back on top again.

The heavens are open

The Prophet Joseph Smith taught from his experience in the Sacred Grove how we can receive personal revelation as a part of our daily lives.
Henry B. Eyring.

The heavens are open to you and to me,

and real revelations can come handsomely.

A heart that is humble, a mind that is clear,

will bring us glad tidings with nothing to fear.

So open your eyes to the wonders in store

to you as the angels bear you up to soar!

Photo Essay: Postcards to my President.

Cursed by a witch.

I was cursed at birth by the witch Sycorax.

My parents told me this on my 19th birthday.

Because she had cursed me to die before the age of 18.

Why did she curse me, I asked them.

Because she wanted to buy our house

and we wouldn't sell to her, they said.

We had a whimsical house,

built out of sandalwood

and painted with saffron.

The second story was larger 

than the first story.

But from the outside

there was no second story.

Flying carpets covered the ceilings.

The ghost of Sargon of Akkad

haunted my toy box --

sending all my wooden soldiers

to conquer the birdbath in the backyard.

Our icebox led directly

to the North Pole.

Kris Kringle came to dinner

frequently -- he hated cooked beets.

When my parents grew old and ridiculous

they sold the house without telling me.

By then I was far away,

sailing stones in the Gobi.

They sold our beautiful whimsical house

to another witch, named Nannie Dee.

She, in turn, made it into a tavern filled with pine trees.

I never forgave my old and ridiculous parents

for selling the house from under me like that.

I could have bought it from them;

for I had become a potent thaumaturge by then.

I could spin gold from pottery shards,

and bred Finkies for their dewclaws.

When I learned my old home was gone

I began to lose interest in magic.

I gave away my onyx signet ring, 

broke my ivory baton in two,

and neglected my red squill plants 

until they dried up and blew away.

I sold my Finkies to Ahasver.

Today I make and sell sandglasses

in a small shop by the seashore.

I weave dried kelp into bags and purses.

I've married a stout widow

who cooks good bean soup.

She and I grow more ridiculous and 
happy each day. 

Regrets.

I'm spoiling to do laundry.
The laundry room is right outside my apartment door.
So it should be a piece of cake, a walk in the park.
Right?
Except for my blonde neighbor next door.
On Tuesdays she's in the laundry room from 11 a.m. until 4 p.m., which is when I want to do my laundry. 
In fact, that's the day, Tuesday, when the curled up sheet of yellow paper on the wall in the laundry room says it's my turn to do laundry.
Monday is too early. Wednesday I've already run out of clean shirts.
I'm not a morning laundry person, or an evening laundry person.
It's midday Tuesday or never.

I can look and smell like a slob. No problem.
I've done it before.
Once I went to church back in Minnesota without shaving all week and wearing a long sleeve white shirt with black ridges on the cuffs and the collar filled with dozens of black pills, like fleas.
An old guy who knew me for ten years came up and asked if I was new in the Ward. He was sniffing for tobacco or alcohol or something. The old fart.

But I wanna go out tonight to a coffee shop for hot chocolate and to meet a brainy girl who carries a big heavy book. So I can tell her I've outgrown P.G. Wodehouse.
Darn that blonde, anyways.
She leans way over the machines when she puts things in and takes things out, so I'm gonna have pale blonde hairs all over my clothes.
Gag a maggot!
All she washes are jeans and black t-shirts.
I should say something to her.
But she's a heavy sigher. Sighs like she's ready to pass a bowling ball.
So I'll wait until she's done, if I don't fall asleep first.
Gotta stay mad. Angry is good, when you need to stay awake.
Hope I've got enough quarters. 
There better not be any Canadian quarters . . . 
Why the hell did I ever sell our house on Como Avenue?
It had a bright white washer and dryer in the basement.

Closure.

They locked the bathroom doors at Fresh Market.
I noticed the sign on the Men's Room door last week:
"Bathroom for employees and customers only."
"Ask at Customer Service for key."
Now what do I do for my early morning walk?
I used to be able to walk over to Fresh Market
for a jalapeno/cheddar bagel right at six.
Soon as I got in the door I'd ask myself:
"Is it time yet?"
But my body is sneaky; it would let me shop a while
and then scream:
"Now! Now it's time!"
And I'd have to move fast.
But now, if my body bushwhacks me at Fresh Market,
I may not have time to go all the way to the Customer Service
counter and then all the way to the Men's Room.
So now I shop at night, like a fugitive.
After the day's business is done for certain.
Maybe if I think about it hard enough
and get mad enough
I won't need to take a walk at all.

The Spirit of Christ

For behold, the Spirit of Christ is given to every man, that he may know good from evil . . . 
Moroni 7:16

I know and act and understand

by light of Christ each great command;

no ignorance can I e'er plead

to mitigate a sinful deed.

O Lord, today give me the strength

to serve thee as I go the length!