Spring's leaves will struggle
春の葉は苦労します
to recall the pain of fall
because of new storms
more:
image excerpts by Michael Soriano
| Modern Times | And How |
 |
| Modern Times |
I designed this poem to s l o w your reading pace to a crawl.
Use of colloquialisms, syl·la·ble-breaks, [internal dialogue],emphasis,*added emphasis* and various tools of poetry
have been combined to paint a picture in your mindabout something which I, personally, fear the most.
Book·ing-thru their big pho·to al·bum book (at)
un·fam·ili·ar pla·ces and fa·ces — when (theez)
[ . . . got to get bet·ter - not too up·set, we’re . . .
]
pe·ople in this room claim: that’s young me wear(ing)
look·ing-a·skew with squints and guard·ed looks (that)
[ . . . wrought true; fret ne·ver - blot new debt let·ter . . . ]
seem un·hap·py “their life’s crap·py” — *my* ... what(eav’z)
spy·ing fro·zen strange day-dreams in time stare(ing)
[ . . . aught you bet whe·ther - hot dew sweat
sweat·ter . . . ]
nook·ing-brew this knocks stuff from brain nook, (fat)
chance of that - I don’t say to crowd of who? (Friendz)
[ . . . thought grew: met bet·ter - fraught shrew
threat fet·ter! . . . ]
we’ve al·rea·dy said, known whole life·time *glare(ing)*
gob·ble·dey·gook·ing-slew hop·ing I gob(smack’t)
[ . . . rot through abet·ter - slaught sprue sun-sett·er! . . . ]
them; flare my scare·y eyes. Do you know where (pleadz)
all these pic·tures’ mem·or·ies, now, are hide(ing)?
similar:
Haiku どこにでも 兆候兆候 5-7-5 俳句 Signs signs, everywhere there
image excerpts by:
David McNew, Scott Olsen, and
Brooke Shaden
Where moose tracks are rare, but hoon tracks ubiquitous
About a dozen miles south of the US-Canadian border, Montgomery, Vermont (almost-kinda translates into mountain man-of-power green mountain, which conjures *ho ho ho green giant*) contains three covered bridges, numerous signs warning motorists to be alert for moose, and a plethora of hoon tracks (see image, above). Not much else.
A few miles south of Montgomery—near the center of Montgomery Center—is a quaint hotel-restaurant called The INN (accent theirs, which conjures *the in in inn*). The INN calls attention to itself with unique signage; currently, their sign says: I CAN SPOT A JUDGEMENTAL PERSON JUST BY LOOKING AT THEM. The rest of the village: ditto the hoon tracks and watch for moose signs, no covered bridges, however.
As one continues south thru Hutchins, VT, the hoon tracks continue in prevalence, the "don't crash into a moose" signs become less-so, and there is but one covered bridge.
Another ten miles south thru Belvidere, VT, the hoon tracks begin fading, as do moose warning signs, but there are a handful of covered bridges; including the Montgomery Covered Bridge in Waterville, Vermont. [The exact number of bridges available to find/see may vary. I found one, labelled Kissing Bridge, that doesn't appear on every map because, I suspect, it's not very old. (Vermont has several named Kissing Bridge, including one in the center of Waterville).]
Also, I learned, that not all covered bridges are referred to as such, some are labelled Romantic Shelters. And it's possible that if it is a newer structure (not part of the Historical Society) or built on private land, it can only be found by lucky sightseers and observant travelers.
other Vermont to-see's:
The Durman Murmurs to Eranthe
(Imagine Rod Serling's voice) "Earth ... the year is ... well, of-course you know the year ... our main character, well of-course you read the title, so you know her name ... she leads the life of an hobby-artist. Her canvas: the earth itself. She creates crop circles and other Earth Art when there are no crops to trample. She does this for fun and adventure ... damaging crops at night because she likes the designs and the not-getting-caught part is an adrenaline rush. One might say she's a pretentious, privileged, middle-class, white (American or British or Canadian) woman who has no thought or consideration for the entire earth besides how she can use it to her advantage. But . . . in 2020 . . . the planet strikes back. With fires. With floods. With hurricanes. With a global pandemic. And for Eranthe? . . Weeeeellll ... the wheat field tries to kill that bitch by plugging her every orifice. But, in the end, it fails. But, does she learn her lesson? . . Do humans learn from nature's desire to eradicate them? Abso-fucking-lutely not!
"I don't think I've ever met a crop circle maker—ahh, designer? engineer?"
"Earth and Ephemeral artist. My mediums
vary: stones, sand, snow, sticks..."
"Sooo....only things beginning with an S?..."
"Ha! I just noticed that..."
"How do you add 'wheat field' to that
list?"
"Spelt."
"W. H. E. A..."
"Yea. No. Another name for wheat
... spelt."
"I want you on my trivial pursuit team."
"Thanks. Sign me up. Most people
aren't very complimentary when I show off my vocabulary.
Hang-on. There's such a thing as team trivial
pursuit? Or did you mean your Scrabble team?"
"Never heard of team Scrabble, but there's
definitely team TeePee. Six people, max. And there's
always a lack of AL knowledgeable teammates."
"Art and Literature, right? What's your go-to
category or specialty?"
"Guess. You already know it's not brown.
That leaves five choices."
"Ahh, Geography. That's my final answer."
"Wow. Most guess Sports and Leisure,
because I'm kinda tall and athletic; but playing basketball and knowing
who won an Olympic gold medal in the decathlon a decade ago, is not the
same. So, yea, I've always been interested in maps.
Geography-blue is my area. How'd you guess?"
"You don't seem very interested in these TV screens,
so I eliminated sports and leisure, as well as entertainment; then I
decided to go-with the statistical probabilities of the patriarchy:
science is dominated by men, which left history or geography. I
flipped a mental coin."
"There are a number of queer women, like myself, who
know their way around SN-green..."
"I was being biased, sorry. No offense
intended."
"No apology necessary...I was
also thinking with bias: when you said the reason you're leaving
early was because tonight was the trifecta: perfect weather, perfect
moon phase, and prime crop formation season, I - kinda - thought that
anything involving that level of subterfuge—like guerilla
street art—was dominated by cis-men."
"I don't frequent any online sites or communities
and do everything solo. No team. My art is for me.
Once it's done, I focus on the selection and design of my next
one. The famous earth-ephemeral artists who I know about
do skew cis-male, but you could say that about almost
anything. For every Andy Goldsworthy, there may be a hundred
creative dykes like me. There's no way to know."
"Do you have time to tell me your best crop circle
story?"
"Welll... I guess."
"No pressure. I'd just like a peek inside the
process. I assume you recon, and sketch, and measure, and use
tools?"
"Yup, OK. I had a very memorable formation
last month."
"In the spelt?"
"It was actually in Durman wheat, but that's an
unimportant detail. I ... haven't ... umm. Maybe I should
tell you about a different time. Sorry, it's just..."
"Aww. You got me interested!
But—hang on—I can see from your expression
you're not thinking about an exciting thing . . . seems you are, what? .
. scared?"
"Yea. I had an experience. I'm not
sure how to explain. Sorry, I don't talk to people much. And
I haven't told anyone about this."
"How come? None of your friends
understand about your artwork, Eranthe? Sorry, am I pronouncing
that right?"
"Please; call me Eran. It wasn't my
creation which, Bree..."
"Come on. Let's sit over here where we
can be out of earshot. You can confide in me. Or not.
But maybe talking to someone who won't judge you, like, ever, is
what you need? And, I prefer my friends call me Bry, rather than
Brianna. Please. Lose the anna."
"Ok. So I was assaulted. But not, well,
not . . . by a person. At least, I never saw anyone. That
night's creation was to be a hypotrochoid shape. All was going
fine, I'd been flattening for almost thirty minutes and then I began to
get lost. Lost in my own head. Dizzy. Confused as to
how far along in the creation I was. I walked back, retraced the
border. And felt paranoid. I listened. Heard
nothing. But got more scared. For no reason."
"How far out from the nearest road or building were
you at this point?"
"I parked almost 3 clicks away; but, I guess, I was
about six or seven hundred meters from a roadway. Maybe the
nearest house or farm was, thru the field, over a kilometer."
"Sorry to interrupt. Go ahead."
"The dizziness was not like being intoxicated
it was like vertigo—like I was going to fall over a steep cliff, but there was nothing
all around me but kilometers of farmlands and wooded plots. I
got down and crawled into the wheat with all my stuff. I lay on my
back, closed my eyes, and attempted to meditate to calm myself.
"You don't have to talk anymore. I can
see this has upset you. I'm so sorry. Don't cry.
Please."
"Maybe talking will help me understand. Maybe
you can think of something I haven't thought of. I felt my clothes
and gear bag get caught-up in the tangle of stalks and leaves and I had
to squirm thru a few rows so I was away from the trampled area.
But. I don't know how what happened next happened. The next
thing I know is my shirt and undershirt are gone. I sit up.
Kinda, raise up on my elbows and the leaves and grass seems all stuffed
into the top of my boots and waistband. I pull some of it out of
my pants and turn to look around. My gear bag is, like, three
meters away—deeper in. I could never have thrown my
stuff that far. And there is nobody around and there is no noise
besides a slight breeze."
"You fell asleep, maybe? And there were no
animal or bug noises?"
"Ahh, I recall bird wings; lots of them. I
might've fallen asleep, but that doesn't explain what I experienced
next. So, I roll over. Begin to get up on my hands and knees
to crawl and when I do, both of my boots are pulled off.
Foop. Foop. I twist and look. All I see is my boots
wrapped in blades of wheat leaves. I say, "fuck this," start to
stand up, and the sky lights up with lights and lasers. I freeze
and slowly lay back down."
"Drone or helicopter?"
"Silent. Too silent. Never heard
any blade noise. When I first noticed the lights, they were one
field away, on the other side of a tree-line. They did fly over my
position but never paused . . ."
"How high do you estimate it was over the
trees?"
"Oh, good question. I've gone back and
looked in daylight, the tallest tree is about 50 meters, no more that 70
meters tall and I think the lights were kinda close to the tops and
never came closer to the ground than that."
"What do you mean lights
and lasers?"
"Lights were yellow-white but not all that
bright. I never saw a circle of light on the field like a
searchlight in the movies, and I was also able to see many thin lines of
green lights, similar to laser lights at concerts, but also not all that
bright. No points of light on the ground or on the wheat around
me."
"Then what."
"This is the fucked-up part."
"Ok."
"It lasts maybe. I don't know. I
want to say the lights last about three minutes. But when it is
gone I try to sit up and my ankles and wrists are wrapped in sheaves of
wheat grass and my pants are off. I pull off a bunch of the
wheat. Rip it. Tear it. Kick stalks out of the
ground. I get up, partly. I'm so weirded out and confused
and can't figure out how any of this is possible. I wonder if I'm
dreaming. I'm definitely talking to myself. I pull up my
loose panties from my thighs and struggle up on my feet; oh yea, my
socks are gone. So I'm looking for clothes and I trip and
fall. And. and... I think the field of wheat.
This sounds crazy out-loud. The wheat . . ."
"Raped you?"
"Well . . . that's not possible. The
wheat assaulted every part of me, though. It moved. Well it
had to move. But I never saw it moving. Not really. I
would look and it would be wrapped around my wrist and I would pull it
off, and then look and it would be completely wrapped around both my
ankles. I would focus on kicking it off and would realize it was
around my neck. I would grab it. When it was in my hand it
never moved. It was just leaves or stalks or stems or seeds of
grain. But eventually. Yea. I fought and struggled
for... seemed like thirty minutes. But it wrapped me
completely. Entered everywhere. My ears. Plugged my
nose. I bit and chewed and it never got beyond my teeth. It
entered my vagina, my anus, and my urethra. That burned like
fire."
"Your eyes? Did you scream?"
"Right. Once it covered my face I closed
my eyes. It pushed into everywhere, but it never was able to force
my eyelids. It felt like a thousand pricks of grass pushing into
me. Grass. Bendy grass. Not like sticks. Not
cutting. Just that when it was able to get inside me, it was
immediately followed by as many blades of grass that would fit.
And I think I got a couple screams out before I realized it was better
to clamp my teeth together so I could breathe."
"I assume you went to a doctor?"
"Yea. I told her I thought I'd been drugged
or poisoned and indecently assaulted the night before. She found
nothing pharmacological, but told me—I never told her about the wheat—that she found spores and suggested that whoever dosed me might have
made some type of hallucinogen out of the fungus found on wheat,
called Ergot."
"You were? This would have been
hallucination? I'm... Shit, this blows my mind.
Explain how long it was until it was over and what you did at that
point."
"Like I said, it was at least a half-hour of biting
off and swallowing pieces of grass that pushed through my pursed lips
and then it just stopped. I sat up, pulled fibers out of my sinus,
colon, cervix, and bladder. Got dressed, found my equipment.
I wasn't dizzy anymore, so I walked to my car. I was out of it for
maybe an hour and a half or two hours."
"And you are headed back out there tonight?"
"Like I said, the conditions are perfect and
I've added items to my equipment bag."
"Oh?"
"I have an industrial mask to prevent Ergot
re-infection."
"Ergo, Ergot—sorry, I couldn't resist—but, what if you weren't hallucinating?"
"I've got an infrared body-camera for the UFO and a
Tesla flamethrower for the wheat."
Albedo Ambedo (next word is...)
Of to day I would speak: tine tap fray battle squeak
underwall there’s a gnaw, scrabble brawl tine-o-claw
neighbors flap: “Just One Bite” “lay a trap” neophyte
“that’s not me” different tack cup-o-tea give a snack
daily crumbs might divert, fervid scrum hangry-blurt
but disease! they’re a pest! (disagrees kill-obsessed)
airship stow’way mischief—panel faux aft sneakthief:
trusting not in my crew; stormy yacht flying through
allmorrow’s grime-n-hate an their “throes castigate”
loath we’re to disembark, n’find it’s too like this ark.
Albedo describes a reflective quality (radiation/light).
Ambedo is a deep-focus-relaxed state of mind (trance).
Azbedo is next (the Bulgarian word for asbestos).
similar time wasting:
...animals got harmed...
...laundromat...
...eglaf...
image excerpts by:
covert corvid covid video
Everyone within my orbit, entertains their brain without going out a door; but
Also not by turning pages, playing games or having conversations, nor
By exercising (thumb scrolling replaced park strolling, lawn bowling,
Boat rowing, as well as the chance to duck when someone shouts,
“Fore!”)
“Just as guilty,” I mutter, “clicking-links instead of playing them as
before—
Staring at videos, instead of venturing outdoors.”
Endless escapades of police escalating, arresting, and murdering, brigades
Of the innocent—and shooting grenades at
protestors—all while dressed for war.
Angrily I close the screen; clearly I’ve again consumed too much
caffeine
While researching ‘failed vaccine’ (“un-be-foreseen” said a president I
abhor)—
Heretofore the supervillain, with henchmen claiming they adore
His every stupid step towards trade-, class- and race-war.
Having always been a corvid ally (ravens, jays, and the occasional magpie)
I restock the feeder and contemplate, my neighborhood’s winged-dinosaurs.
“Tell me something good.” I grumble, at a black corvid beginning to
fumble
With some jerky, crumble-jumbled. “A great song . . . from 1974.”
“Did you speak aloud?” I stammer, “Or, have I—now
got—a brain tumor?”
“. . . By Chaka Kahn . . . I’m pretty sure.”
Self-sanity test, preliminary: pose a problem to-yourself without
tarry.
143 times 17 is my query. Now, fingers in ear-canals, listen for
Anything—muffled or not; incorrect or not. Naught is heard and nothing more.
Now to those within earshot, request an answer you don’t yet have. Implore.
“Please tell me your favorite foodstuff, something found in a grocery
store.”
Its beak moved as I heard, “Tuna . . . preferably, albacore.”
“What’s your name?—once finished talking, I’ll buy some without balking.”
Pausing its pecking, it hopped close and stared with such intensity and vigor
I forgot our conversation, and became lost in its feather-sheen and
respiration.
“My nation calls our own name . . . when we meet I say, hello Köal-Lor.”
“Hello Veach” I reply with a smile, “no need to remember names
anymore;
With how many of my nation have you shared your lore?”
No longer snacking,
Köal-Lor croaked at an encroaching corvid’s braacking,
Which caused me to wonder if human yakking was already a thing of
yore.
Curious, I said, “Hello, Veach” to the newcomer; it replied, “low, beach.”
“Xss-Tarè has no cross-nation speech . . . only emulates,” said
Köal-Lor.
“Many copy . . . only a few of my nation can both think and speak in yours.
I ask you not endanger my life by telling others . . . you are number
44.”
“Query,” (black-eye to eye-forlorn) “Why’re so many faces under full-adorn?”
“New disease,” I say, “Airborne—called
covid—some protect with face decor,
Stay apart, travel less; others express hate and fear; some oppress; most
stress.”
“Our battle against life’s unkindness’s . . . always ends in death . . . closed door.
You call it corvid, though?” “No, co-vid without the arrh; a virus we
abhor.”
As the corvid began to soar, I swore, to bring albacore—tomorrow, for sure.
This homage to Edgar Allen Poe's The Raven obviously doesn't have an attached covert video. If you've read this far, expecting to find a video, thank you for reading my poetry and viewing my photo-collage; sorry for the misleading homophone-title.
similar creations:
Mess of Pottage (meal of stew)
Work in Progress ... Interesting Times
image excerpts by:
Amanda Owen, and
Austin Granger
(website)
Nullachtfünfzehn's Mailbox
 |
| Nullachtfünfzehn's Mailbox - 15 Aug (08/15 Day) |
Mailbox artwork -
ALL
Santa Claus' Mailbox
- 25 Dec (Christmas)
AULDLANGSYNE's Mailbox - 1 Jan (New Year's Day)
Sommerzeit's Mailbox
- 8 Mar (Daylight Savings Time 2020 / 'Summertime' in Germany)
Avril Poisson's Mailbox
- 1 Apr (April Fools Day / April Fish in France)
St. George's Mailbox
- 23 Apr (Feast of St George)
May IV's Mailbox
- 4 May (Star Wars Day)
Serling's Mailbox
- 11 May (Twilight Zone Day)
Orangemen's Mailbox
- 12 Jul (Orangemen's Day / 'The Glorious Twelfth')
too eglaf or not eglaf enough?
sexual horror poetry; image of a partially-nude female body; warning /
caution / head's up fuck face: this poem is not suitable for children under
the age of whenever their terrible parents permit them unfettered access to
the internet; the word/mental imagery is explicit, more than slightly
suggestive and contains overt sexual violence against women, including (but
not limited to) kidnap, rape, bondage, and sex-slavery; while the author
considers the visual image to be simple erotica - the poem, however, is not
for anyone with an unworldly conservate mindset or who posseses an immature
sensibility; if you are adroit enough to find this, then you are certainly
competent-enough at internetting to not be shocked by any of the topics
in my poem. Just don't share it with your baby brother or your
grandma.
basement machine, byproduct steam; scaffolding, overhead, rusty
bloody-lip smell, loamy green hell; body sweat, lubricant, lust scree
intrinsic maw, pheromone draw; whispering murmuring: *trust me,
I know it's dark* fungus and bark; *please disrobe, climb inside, thusly,
follow my voice, no other choice, getting tight, wonderful* [cussing]
*creep deeper in, now pull your chin* gag reflex, metronome, thrust deep
*fast growing roots, fill all your chutes; provide fuel, oxygen, musk-seed,
symbiont-spouse, cervix feels soused; already, desire-full tusking?
here, finger flex: one-no two-yes*
commencing ...*tap for speed*... kvmzee
spasm thrill still? un-sated fille; then births-n-nursing why... rush
thee?
immortal wife, now quell your strife; deep coma, paralyze (brusquely)
soon we drop spawn, nurse thereupon; for decades, the brood you'll bustfeed
brainless your part - while I teach art: ambush scent, bait-luring, husk-breed
once all depart, we will restart; tuskin' and raisin' our Musk Trees
— The Musk Tree by Veach Glines
Eglaf (/egg/•luff) is not a word. Because this combination of letters is not a morpheme, has no meaning or definition in any language, but bears the resemblance of a word, eglaf is a place-holder for any word of the reader's choosing.
peruse similar:
...
'tween neck and knees
...
...
Magnifico's Safer-Brand Tomato ...
image portions by:
Marcel Pouce
and
Keith Shuley
US Health Care if King for a Day
|
|
Dior I want to paint it |
Sounds like you think the proposed Medicare For All is the best way.Weell—it's not the way that I'd completely re-tool the US health care system if I was king for a day, but it's a step in the right direction. In my opinion, our for-profit system is immoral and everyone who works in it is required to behave unethically.
Sounds socialist.
Yees. It is. Maybe you don't know the term you're throwing around like an idiot. Makes you sound stupid. Are you?
What?
Arre yoou Duumb?
Sounds like you want to pick a fight.
Yuup. I'm pickin' a fight with an idiot who's never had an original thought. Ever. Who bows at the alter of FOX on a daily basis, who probably was grateful to be able to stop reading books after graduation, is proud of that ignorance, and who's willing to defend that ignorance, rather than learn anything, . . . with your fist.
Soo, hit me—I won't hit you back. Instead, I intend to just call the police.
Theey'll come and arrest you for assault, and you'll begin a journey thru the US legal system. All of which can be paid for by our government. A court appointed attorney is paid a flat fee. The judge, jailers, bailiff, all get a government salary; 'course your fines will go to the government—so it's not all paid by taxes.
Umm, you might choose to hire a lawyer who'll charge by the billable-hour. He or she will find any-and-every imaginable reason to up their price, because—by hiring them—you've declared that money is paramount and you don't want a public attorney who chose to work, to help people. If you're found guilty and go to jail—you'll still pay your lawyer anyway. Refuse to pay the tens of thousands of dollars they'll charge and they then will sue you into bankruptcy. One punch. Risk losing your job, getting a felony record and a 550 credit score.
Sounds like you are trying to make a point.
Annd. What's that point I'm tryin' to make?
Sounds to me that you think hospitals can be run like the legal system. But that has never been a thing and would never work.
Ahh bit of honest advice? Me to you? Not pickin' a fight—just sayin'—that, from now on, you should try twisting every statement you're plannin' on makin' into a question. So your last idiotic statement would be changed into: Are you sayin' the US health care system could be run like the legal system? Has that ever been a thing that's worked? Can you hear how my voice raises at the end of the sentences? That upraising tone of voice doesn't make you sound like a fool making factless-statements, it makes you sound like you're interested in learning. Get it?
Ohh, before you say anything, I'll answer those questions. Yes. That's what I'm sayin' and yes, that system currently works in hundreds of countries. It also has worked and currently works on every US active duty military airbase, on every ship, on every post, in every Bureau of Indian Affairs hospital and clinic and in every Veterans Affairs hospital.
But that's just a ...shit... OK. How would you switch over the tens of thousands of hospitals and clinics and pharmaceutical companies and drug stores and insurance companies and ambulance companies and hell — I don't even know how many hundreds of different companies currently make stuff designed to be SOLD for health care. Are you saying all those jobs become government jobs?
Noo. Our legal system buys the products it needs. The government buys uniforms and vehicles and bullets and handcuffs. It buys land and hires construction engineers to build court houses and jails and prisons.
Are you saying the government would buy all the hospitals or build new ones of their own?
Weell — king for a day — I'd pass a law which made it illegal to profit from providing any service in any way related to health care. I'd also make it illegal to profit from the criminal legal system, which would make private prisons illegal and the only lawyers able to work in the criminal courts would be government salaried professionals.
Yea, but you didn't answer my question.
Wiith my new law it would be impossible to profit from providing health care without going to prison, so every doctor running a private practice, every clinic, to every hospital-conglomerate would have three choices: either they become a non-profit organization with set prices and salaries; or they donate their entire operation to the government who would take it over and run it like a VA hospital; or they could turn their hospital into a resort-spa-hotel for non-health care type services, which would not be banned: like elective surgeries, drug rehabilitation, autopsies, and the like.
Abortions?
Aahh. I don't know. Hadn't thought about that. Off the top of my head, all birth control is immediately free because it's health care; but, since most people who terminate a pregnancy are doing so as an elective surgery, I think that'd, mostly, not be covered. So you can add abortions to another service available at the resort-spa-hotel option.
You said — see, I'm asking questions — the hospitals would be able to become non-profit and then they would post prices, but the government hospitals in the same town would be free, right?
Riight.
How would nonprofit hospitals or doctor's offices get any business? Even with posted prices and set salaries they could never compete against free.
Buut, how do non-profit museums or zoos or civil rights organizations or medical clinics survive today? There are tens of thousands of them.
I don't know. Donations?
Yess, memberships and donations are a big part. But, I suspect the most successful ones provide a unique service not available elsewhere. A standard government VA hospital is going to triage, prioritize, schedule, and provide satisfactory health care for all. Key word there was satisfactory. Think DMV. Think police station. Think county jail. Is the picture becoming clearer?
Not a pretty picture.
Noo. I suspect that there are millions of wealthy people who'll be willing to pay an annual membership fee and then pay out of pocket for health care at a non-profit hospital in order to not stand in line and only receive the standard and satisfactory health care available to every person in the country. Just like at Disneyland, money makes it possible to not wait in line.
When you said out-of-pocket I remembered health insurance companies. Are your new laws going to make them illegal?
Absoolutely not. No company would be banned or forced out of business or seized by the government. The only thing that would happen is people or corporations who make any profit from providing any form of service related to health care would be guilty of the felony crime of intentional harm toward the greater populace, punishable by up to ten years in prison and a ten million dollar fine for each individual whom they profit from. I suspect a limited amount of non-profit health insurance companies might be created, probably affiliated with the few non-profit hospitals, but most health insurance companies would decide to re-tool to become life-home-car insurance companies.
And pharmaceutical companies?
Soo, there are already a couple nonprofit drug companies out there, but they only make generic drugs. My new law would make it illegal for any company to profit from creating a patient on a new drug, as well as selling patients they already own. The federal government will set all drug prices, not the pharmaceutical companies, so if they wanted to stay in business, big-pharma would—obviously—have to become completely non-profit. Or, they would have to separate and only work on research and production of non-health care medications. They could still profit from 'elective drugs' like recreational drug production, penis pills, vitamins.
I'm sensing a theme. Your law would mostly change executive pay, bonuses and stocks. Non-profit companies don't have stocks.
Thaat's correct. Not for profit agencies are focused on the best product for people or on people themselves. At the end of a profitable year, nonprofit organizations invest all their profits in structural improvements, logistics, expansion, or saving for a future non-profitable year. Think military—a commander doesn't get a bonus when the soldiers under their command successfully accomplish a mission.
Wheen soldiers get paid bonuses or are promised more money for more efficient killing they are mercenaries. Soldiers for hire. Or, pirates. Any job which is best filled by people with no moral code or who are not required to adhere to ethical behavior, should never be one related to providing constant and consistent health care to the entire population of a country regardless of income. My law would force that to happen. I would call it the Every Community Health Organization and the slogan would be: Every ECHO is your ECHO where you're an ECHO member.
Why?
Eveentually asshats will say it or hear it enough to learn the difference between your and the abbreviated form of you are. Don't ya think? King for a day!
more but different:
...
using an apostrophe
...
...
on
socialized medicine
...
...
squirrels in conversation
...
image portions by:
krystina stimakovits
(website)
and
Marc Carpenter
(noah's ark) know whut's art
No-matter our differences in fur or feather
nor volume and variety, oh voices in tatter
vow share this surface — most vital factor
street art public art ephemeral art; graffiti
entreat your local creatives, in two and 3D
drumbeat the injustice & corporate greedy
'thots-n-prayers' dished by their hypocrites
musical chairs; 'vote 4 no-change' ad blitz
their heirs till white-lye and "take the piss"
surmount every agenda and all superstition
confound linguistic—string critical cognition
battleground for a future not their perdition
similar:
...Design Fault...
...cul-de-sac graffito...
...KEEP CLEAR...
image excerpts by: Joseph O Holmes (website); Anders Eliasson,
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