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  It is fall again in Palisade, Colorado and I look up from my desk in the corner of my vintage trailer and to see a green field near a school on one side of me and a neighboring trailer on the other. I laugh this morning as I recall a discussion with my editor and about requirements of a news article and complaints of my "excessive" length. When the editor-in-chief told me never to try never to exceed 200 words over the seven hundred and fifty word length requirement, my section editor, Cloie, lowers the maximum requirement to five hundred. This toying annoys me but I contain the pressure generating within my chest and skull and keep pressing. The discussion ended with the section editor repeating her assertion of "Five Hundred to seven hundred words, that's your leeway," as if her primary concern was the right to the last breath and sound. It amazes me that this final moment is more important than the conclusion of the conversations between us. 

My mind whirs and I catch the moment again and ride the stream back to the present as the carousel of time returns me there. The library beckons me and so does the moment in which I will get there. Fuck you Monsanto, you and your chemical bull shit that poisons us all. There is a card upon which a devil and the joker combined laugh at your attempts to shut the farmers down, Monsanto. A duo arises for each person you attack with your army of lawyers and Gestapo dance. Now we take your shit but eventually we retaliate and when that day comes, all the world with burn in order to catch the attention of the masses and draw it to the epicenter where you will fall. We know where you shit, Monsanto, and we are watching you to ensure you get away with the least amount of poison possible outside of the toilet. Fuck you, you sly dog, we are watching you. I know how to eat and I get to decide where from; so do we all. Back off of my stomach and mouth or I will begin to use my mind and hands to fight back.

Laugh Long, Love Life,

Ryan Versaw