Socialism v. Fascism

Dear Right-Wingers,

I would like to take this time to help you with some information you may find useful; the difference in socialism and fascism. Here are the exact definition:

Socialism - A political and economic theory of that advocates that the means of production, distribution, and exchange should be owned or regulated by the community as a whole.

Fascism - 1. An authoritarian and nationalistic right-wing system of government and social organization.

2. (in general use) Extreme right-wing, authoritarian, or intolerant views or practice

Now that we know what we're talking about, we can take a more in depth view on the differences.

Socialism v. Fascism: Fascism is authoritarian and totalitarian, which isn't always reflected in socialism. It is true that fascism has some socialistic ideas, but to call them socialist is just naive. The main reason for this is fascists governments economy aren't entirely always entirely socialist. In many cases, they are anti-socialist because they thought socialism to be anti-property. Furthermore, socialism in general, likes the idea of a global community, where as fascism is incredibly nationalistic which can be seen in NAZI Germany as a prime example. Lastly, fascism is anti-democratic. Without redefining it's standards, there is no way for fascism to incorporate democracy. Socialism, on the other hand, quite often is democratic and has been proven to work as such.

ASIDE REGARDING NAZISM - Lets say I hand you an orange and I say to you "This is an apple!" So you look at it, you smell it, you taste it, and you realize it's an orange. Your rebuttal? "Clearly, this is an orange! It looks, smells, and tastes like an orange, therefore it is an orange." I quickly inform you that the company that produced it is now calling them apples, but you know that an orange, by any other name, is still an orange. This is exactly what happened with nazism. They called themselves the National Socialist Party in order to attract voters who were scared of capitalistic democracy at that time. But, if you acted like a fascist, looked like a fascist, smelled like a fascist (I could imagine it's a lot like hair oil and after shave), then you are a fascists. A fascist by any other name, is still a fascist.

The moral of the story? Musolini, Franco, and Hitler are NOT socialists, so when I say "I am socialist," do not assume I promote their form of government. Kay thanks bye.

~Seth

Unmapped Highway

I found this mini online workshop for poetry, and I'm going to try to work my way though it in order to really start to refine myself in written word. If anyone loves/hates it let me know! Be honest, be brutal! :)

EXERCISE I:

Write a poem in which you begin with an abstraction idea or concept that you then develop in specific, concrete terms through a single well-chosen extended metaphor that serves as the basis for the entire poem.

Unmapped Highway

I chose to start slow

down this unmapped highway.

Only one way to travel

and there's no turning back.

The pavement starts smooth,

so I pick up my speed.

As youth often do,

beginning this journey.

No need for reservations,

so I never look back.

I keep flying forward,

the pavement begins to crack.

The cracks start out tiny,

what harm can they do?

This is my journey,

my highway, my prelude.

The cracks turn to potholes,

and the road begins to curve.

It's too late to slow down.

Too late to swerve.

I let off the gas,

and take them head on.

My tires are damaged badly

and my hubcaps are gone.

The road smooths itself out,

and I start again slow.

There are more cracks ahead,

but this time I know.

These knicks and dings,

this rugged appearance,

On this unmapped highway,

is your life experience.

Sugar Coated Silence

The words twist in the space
located between the sensitive gadgets
that can't stand to hear them.

They twist themselves into shapes
of malicious monsters that lash out,
unaware that every squished ambition
is a word that didn't have to be said.

They promenade on my tongue elegantly,
ready to abandon my cigarette stained mouth
until the clock strikes midnight,
and they unravel themselves
back into a mess of amorphous lines
struggling to make sense out of themselves.

This is the trouble with words.

Happy can be happy
if the pallet allows it.
Or, in the case of unrequited love,
it can lie to itself
like a childless mother
refusing to bear the burden of loss.

Emotions are saccharine when spoken aloud.
Sure they taste good but is it worth cancer?
The diabetic mind strives on these words,
but I prefer my cancer with sugar.

So as words twist in the space

located between the sensitive gadgets

that can't stand to hear them,

my body writes novels of sugar coated silence.

My God is Existence

My spirituality is found in the vastness

of the oceans in the sky.

Black waters lush with lifeless moving giants

larger than imagination yet perceived

as a gleaming spec on the omnipresent

graphite ceiling of humanity.

My faith lies within the trees,

that recycle my aluminum breath

to breathe the gasoline of

the combustion engine of being.

My religion is the barren space

between the lines unwritten

and knowledge unknown.

The ability to delve into the philosophy of

discovery and be content with void

composition books as humanity

closes the gap to humility.

It defibrillates intelligence,

and euthanizes ignorance.

The blank theories diligence,

restores my confidence,

in this religion of science,

and it's dogmatic defiance.

My God is existence.

The Autumn Ducks

The nostalgic leaves, the late Autumn breeze,

The apathetic moon, the withering trees.

A wise old man with balding head,

Finding beauty in what's almost dead.

The ducks, they swim and clean their wings,

They beg for food, and my heart wrings.

"Can't we just feed them a little bread?

I'm scared they'll starve without it," I said.

The wise old man just sighs at me,

"If we feed them, they can't be free.

They will stay the winter long,

They'll freeze to death, which is wrong.

"Sometimes, when you care to much,

Others will use it as a crutch.

So these ducks that you say you love,

Leave them alone to fly above

"the dead trees to a warmer place,

So they may find new ponds to grace.

If you truly care, let them go.

It's the hardest thing, I know."

I never fed those ducks the bread,

In fear they soon would be dead.

When I awoke to the suns ascent,

The ducks were gone, and I was content.

And despite the ducks I never fed,

I fed you that lustful bread.

Now I fear you'll never leave,

Can't you just be done with me?

Seth McPhail