“Follow justice and justice alone, so that you may live and possess the land the Lord your God is giving you.”

~Dt. 16:20

Haiku: A Tragedy
A tragedy:
So many murder victims,
So few convictions.

Justice and life for unborn and newborn children.

Justice for those bilked by Sandy Hoaxers.

Justice for America, trashed by traitors.

Justice for Philip Haney (d. 2/22/20)

Justice for Jamal Khashoggi, assassinated on October 2, 2018 at the Saudi consulate in Istanbul, Turkey.

Justice for Waco victims (d. 4/19/93)

Justice for the Boys on the Tracks (d. 8/23/87)
https://tinyurl.com/3aqzq9 (The Crimes of Mena)

Justice for Vince Foster (d. 7/20/93).

Justice for the victims of the 9/11 attack (9/11/01).

Justice for Navy Seal Team Six (15 fatalities, 8/6/11).
Death of SEAL Team 6 – Set Up and Cover Up

Justice for victims of the Clinton Body Count.

Justice for Americans killed in Benghazi (9/11-12/12)
https://tinyurl.com/y25ghmxj (Gun-running in Benghazi)

Justice for victims of Deep State fraud, corruption, and hoaxes.

Justice for Michael Hastings (d. 6/18/13)

Justice for Justice Antonin Scalia (d. 2/13/16)

Justice for Seth Rich (d. 7/10/16)

Justice for victims of NXVIM.

Justice for women assaulted, raped and acid-attacked by Muslims.

Justice for persecuted Christians.

Justice for children kidnapped, trafficked, beaten, raped, tortured, and murdered.

Justice for Donald Trump on Spygate.

Justice for churches in France that have been desecrated.

“Wake up, and strengthen what remains and is about to die, for I have not found your works complete in the sight of my God.”
~Revelation 3:2

Fiat justitia ruat cælum.

March 30: “Job to the Lord” by Day Williams

Job to the Lord


I’ve seen you, Lord, whose plans succeed,

You, Lord, who can perform all deeds.

The sight of you makes me despise

The Self that I had praised and prized.

My ignorance is evident−

In dust and ashes I repent.

~Day Williams


XIR84999 Job (oil on canvas) by Bonnat, Leon Joseph Florentin (1833-1922)
oil on canvas
Musee Bonnat, Bayonne, France
Lauros / Giraudon
French, out of copyright

“St. Francis of Assisi,” poem by Day Williams


(1181 or 1182–1226)

Francis of Assisi


So humble was the Lord that He was born

A babe in manger’s straw one starry night

In Bethlehem, a King in poverty,

Not raised in palaces adorned with gold,

The homes of earthly kings whose holiness

Flickers like candles when the breezes blow.

“Remember that the Lord takes care of birds,

And clothes the flowers in their finery.

Not even Solomon was dressed like these,”

Christ Jesus told the crowds who followed him

In Galilee, “and you are worth more than

Sparrows, who cannot fall unseen, unknown,

Or unappreciated by the Lord,

Father of day and night, of earth and sky.

As he takes care of these, whose breaths are few,

So will the Lord supply your needs, you men

Seeking for worldly wealth and man’s esteem.

Increase your faith, and walk in holiness,

Surrendering the flesh and its desires,

In poverty of spirit, trusting God.”

When humble men receive the Word of God

In truth and love, as Francis did, their lives

Transform from formless coal to diadems.

I shall relate, dear reader, how this man,

An ordinary youth, was touched by God

And grew in holiness until the signs

That followed him were miracles, the signs

Of supernatural design, as when

He bled the wounds of Christ in hands and feet.

To tell a true biography in verse

About the lives of persons great and small,

Through whom the Lord achieved a mighty end–

That is my goal, though I may pant and sweat

As donkeys do when burdened with their loads,

Hardened in summer sun, as they ascend

A rocky slope, for God called me to write

When decadence has spewed its stones and thorns

As one more century concludes– declines

The way a sprinter’s vigor wanes when heat

And effort drain the muscles’ strength away.

By grace, and not by any righteousness

Of mine, this verse shall triumph over times

Where people value flash of currency

More than denial of the self for God.

My purpose is to glorify the Lord,

To teach how He inspires the meek and weak,

No matter where they live or who they are,

For God works miracles through those who call

Upon the name of Jesus with pure hearts.

God calls to you and me, but we must have

The ears to hear, and hearts that will obey.

Francis’ Youth

Real men are Christians, worshipping in truth.

When Nicodemus came by night to ask

The Lord about His Kingdom, Jesus said,

“Unless a man is born again, he can’t

Enter the Kingdom of eternal life.”

“Can man return inside his mother’s womb?”

Questioned the Pharisee who longed to know

(Much like a chemist, with his charts and tubes

Inquires how catalysts react in tests)

The secrets hidden in the Kingdom’s vaults.

Christ answered by analogy of wind

(Which blows from here to there in mystery)

To God the Holy Spirit, who moves, warms,

Builds, edifies, delights, corrects, convicts

And carries men in ways we cannot grasp.

Why God chose Francis and how this young man

Was born again– these details are unknown.

But that this urban roustabout, who led

His friends in revelry, was stopped, entranced,

We have no doubt; and friends inquired if he

Had fallen for a girl, and been engaged.

“I have a love,” he said, “but do not know

Her name, or where she lives, or how she looks.”

That unknown love was Lady Poverty.

God planted seeds in Francis’ heart and soul,

And they would germinate in time, the way

A sperm may swim inside an egg, and lose

Its tail, the two now fused as one, one life

So small the naked eye may not discern

The doubling of the cells from blastocyst

To embryo then fetus curled within

The womb, one human life throughout the growth,

(Miraculous as walking on a lake,

Or healing one born blind with gentle touch,

Or, with few words, commanding winds to stop)

Until what once was tiny sperm and egg

Spurts forth between the mother’s legs, a child

Who cries in bloody birth, first breath, the hope

Another generation gives to earth

Where God, Creator of the sun and stars,

Eternal, righteous, and all-powerful,

Controls the phases of the moon and tides,

Consoles the downcast, governs atoms’ spins,

Shines on the righteous, grieves for the forlorn,

Performs his miracles for the elect,

The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit: God,

Who formed the mountains from the driest land,

And shaped Antarctica, the Arctic, North

And South America, Australia, Asia,

And Africa, who nurtures men of God,

Who guards and shelters people in His wings,

Makes nations rise and fall, and molds the hands

Of babies as they grow within the womb.

He sends His word like rain and snow to do

His purposes, and by His will he brought

This birth in Francis, son of pomp and wealth,

This second birth with which he wrestled

Like Jacob with the angel, for this birth

Was like a death, the death of self’s desires,

Through Jesus making nothing of himself,

As though a knight (which Francis had aspired

To be, a killer of the infidels),

As bodyguard, received the darts and spears

The enemy directed at the King,

So that the greater person might yet live.

Thus he became a knight of Christ, a knight

Who loved the poor so much that he himself

Became a humble man of poverty.

A grotto at San Damiano, near

Assisi, hid in solitude the youth

Who sought the face of God in prayers and tears,

Lamenting sins that seared his heart and soul,

In war between the spirit and the flesh

Which roared and raged until the peace of death.

In pilgrimage to Rome the beggars drew

His heart, and he exchanged his silks for rags

And mingled with the beggars, begging alms

In joy with them beside St. Peter’s tomb.

Disgusted by the sight of lepers, once

He had turned his back and held his nose

Until the mercy of the Lord renewed

His heart so that he loved as Jesus did.

When at a leper colony two miles

From his home town, the youth confessed to them,

“I hated you!  Forgive me, I beg you!”

He lingered, and before he left, he gave

Them coins and kissed each one upon the mouth.

Inside a crumbling chapel, as he knelt

And prayed before a wooden crucifix,

Christ’s figure called to him by name and said,

“Go, Francis, and repair my ruined church,”

And Francis started with a lamp and oil

To burn and to irradiate the cross

And figure, crucified, which ordered him

To build the Church which lay in disrepair.

Isaiah prophesied the Lord to be

An unattractive man, the same they said

Of Francis, rich man’s son who sold the cloths

Belonging to his father, so he could give

The money to rebuild the chapel’s walls.

His father sued in civil court, which had

No jurisdiction over him who took

His refuge with a priest in poverty.

His father asked the Bishop for relief,

Authority which Francis did respect.

As villagers assembled in the church

To see the verdict, Francis, worn and gaunt

From fasts and prayers, and called a lunatic,

Threw back the money to his father, and

(While he took off his silken clothes, and tossed

Them one by one away, until he stood

Without a stitch to cover up his skin),

Proclaimed his only Father was the one

In heaven, as the bishop covered him,

For sake of modesty, in his robe’s folds.

His father mocked and cursed him ‘til the day

That Francis asked a brother to pronounce

A blessing every time his father swore.

Thus he departed from the merchant’s life,

A rebel with a cause, the cause of Christ,

Because he aimed to follow Jesus’ rules,

Relying on the Lord to meet his needs

As He provided for the birds, who do

Not work nor store their food for future want.

He begged for alms, prayed, fasted, and acquired

Some followers, who had no food to eat

But scraps they begged from door to door despite

The scorn of villagers who called them mad,

These Friars Minor, Lady Poverty’s

Companions, worshippers, and advocates,

Who gave their goods away to follow Christ,

Whose missions brought Good News to pagan lands

Where some achieved the martyrdom they sought.

In God’s Creation is a unity,

A brotherhood with plants and animals,

With fire and water, earth and air, which he

Could feel and know from friendship with the Lord.

When Francis preached, the birds flocked round to hear,

They massed in branches of the nearby trees,

They landed on his arms and by his feet.

A sheep accompanied the saint to his

Communion; a cicada came when he would

Call, lighted on his hand, and sang the praise

Of God with him; a hare from Grecchio

Would follow Francis like a dog; a fish

At Lake Rieta swam to ask the saint

To bless it, for this man of God could speak

Of God to animals, who understood.

He tamed a wolf that terrorized a town

By feasting on its citizens; as one

Would speak to an unruly child, the saint

Spoke to the wolf, whose last two years were spent

As docile as a puppy in a pen,

And, when it died, the people mourned the loss.

The Stigmata

In August of twelve hundred twenty-four,

Led by the Poverello, one small group

Of faithful friars–Brothers Angelo,

Illuminato, Leo (trusted guide),

Masseo, and Rufino–prayed and left

The Portiuncula and trekked through fields

And Alpine meadowlands to Mount La Verna

To celebrate a holy day, the Feast

Of the Assumption of the Virgin to

Heaven, a tenet of the Catholic faith.

In prayer beside a hut the Saint, who made

Himself as nothing, serving Christ, received

The marks, the wounds that showed conformity

To Jesus’ agony at Calvary.

The Friar Leo witnessed Francis lift

Off ground as high as limbs and leaves of trees,

And level with a giant beech’s top,

When he conversed with Christ in solitude.

September fourteen in twelve twenty-four,

The Christians celebrated how the cross

Had been recovered from the infidels,

The Feast of Exaltation of the Cross,

And Francis fasted as he dwelt upon

The sufferings of Christ for humankind,

Reality more real than grass or birds,

Unbearable to face unless the heart

Is humble and contrite, firm, pure, and meek.

St. Francis, who expected martyrdom,

Prayed toward the rising sun when suddenly

From heaven’s heights a seraphim with wings,

Six wings of flame, flew down to him who begged

Two graces from the Lord before he died:

To feel the Passion’s pains, and feel for Christ

The love that made Him sacrifice for us.

The seraphim was like a man, limbs nailed

Onto a cross, two wings across his face,

Two wings across his body, and two wings

With which he flew: Christ Jesus in this form

Revealed Himself to Francis, gazed at him,

Imprinted marks on him, then flew away.

St. Francis had received the marks of Christ:

His hands and feet were as though pierced with nails,

With round black heads upon the palms and on

The feet, and from the back of both his hands

And from the soles of both his feet bent points

Extruded, points of toughened flesh like nails.

From his right side flowed blood, blood

From his fifth wound, which looked as though a lance

Had pierced his side the way a soldier’s lance

Pierced Jesus’ side when He hung dead, dead God,

The Lord and Savior dead from broken heart

At Calvary outside Jerusalem,

Humiliated and forsaken Christ.

“Let no one cause me trouble, for I bear

The marks of Jesus on my body, friends,”

Wrote the Apostle Paul, and said no more

About the miracle to followers.

The first in more than a millennium

To gain the stigma of the Savior’s wounds,

St. Francis at first acted like St. Paul,

Reluctant to say much, until his friend

Illuminato told him, “God gives grace

To you, that you may edify your friends,”

And though he hid the wounds in bandages,

St. Francis showed the marks to friar friends,

The wounds that showed upon him even when

His Sister Death had taken him away.

Three hundred people since St. Francis have

Received stigmata, such as Padre Pio,

Teresa of Avila, Catherine of

Siena (an Italian patron saint)

Therese Neumann, and Veronica,

A miracle that skeptics can’t refute,

An intervention from above to show

The grace and glory of Christ crucified,

Beside which worldly riches count as trash.

His Last Two Years

His fast concluded and his body sick,

Despite the sea that stormed within his soul,

“You are the Holy One, the Lord,” he wrote

In happiness, then bid farewell to Mount

La Verna: “Peace to you, beloved mountain,

Which I shall never see again,” and bid

Farewell to Brothers Angelo, Sylvester,

St Francis 10mb

St. Francis Statue, Golden, CO

Masseo, and Illuminato: “Live

In peace, my children!  While my body goes

Away, my heart remains with you. Good-bye!”

As Jesus, entering Jerusalem,

The holy city where the prophets die,

Rode on a donkey, Francis rode upon

A donkey’s back for his return to home,

The Portiuncula, his forest home,

The humble chapel that he had rebuilt.

His fasts and penances, his loss of blood

From wounds that oozed his blood from bandaged hands,

Had weakened him, and nails within his feet

Made walking hard, if not impossible.

Yet still the Lord worked through the dying man,

Who healed an epileptic friar, cured

A boy whose wound healed over in the form

Of a red rose, and freed a woman who

Barked like a dog, possessed by demons’ snares.

A friend of Christ will cherish those for whom

Christ suffered on the cross of Calvary.

In joy the saint, now blind and weak, composed

A song, the Canticle to Brother Sun,

Exalting God in honor, glory, praise,

And blessing His Creation: Brother Sun

And Sister Moon, with humble thanks to God,

A song so beautiful that enemies,

Who heard the friars sing it, reconciled

And begged forgiveness in humility.

As Francis sang a Psalm, he died, and larks

Alighted on the roof as a white cloud

Carried a flaming star above the seas,

The Little Poor Man’s soul bound heavenward.

For sorrow after holy Francis died,

A pheasant from Siena would not eat,

And Sister Death transformed his body, limbs

As white as stars, wounds as black as nights

When clouds and branches pass across the moon.

His Last Days

For one like him, who sought to imitate

The Lord on earth in humble poverty,

To die and be with Christ was gain.

The cult of self-denying poverty,

A fellowship of sharing in His pain,

An antidote to greed and strife within the Church,

Was timely to rebuild the Church’s faith.

St. Francis reawakened faith in Christ,

Revolted by relinquishment of goods,

Refused to follow after wind and dust,

And traded silk for sow’s ears, gaining God,

Who sits upon the throne from age to age.

He traded vanishing delights for joy

That lasts, the happiness of serving Christ.

The lives of Christians form dramatic plays,

Where Francis played a simple, humble part;

To imitate the Lord was Francis’ heart,

To follow Him in poverty, his art.

St Francis2.10mb
St. Francis of Assisi

“Highway 50 Series” by Day Williams

     “The Loneliest Road in America”


Custom Print

Greeting Card

God the Rock


“God Rocks” poster

Skull on Wall, Austin, Nevada

“Skull on Wall” custom print

Desert Grave, Alkali Flat, Nevada

Buffalo (B. Bison), Willow Creek Ranch, Nevada

 abandoned sofa Leeteville Jctn.sml

mining rig Ruth bw 3 10mb

“Mining Rig, Ruth” Postcard


“Mining Rig, Ruth” pen and ink, poster

Austin 2 bw.sml

Day hwy 50.sml

The lonely road

Has saddened me:

It seems to stretch


Eureka courthouse.sml

Cara in Rocks, Alkali Flat

Copper-colored water, alkali flat, Nevada

Binocular Man, Silver Springs, Nevada

“Binocular Man” Color Poster

“Binocular Man” black and white postcard

“Binocular Man” Postcardbarber shop Ely.sml


barbed wire bw.sml

Boot on Fence Post, Highway 50, Nevada


Shoe Tree, Highway 50, Nevada

Chevy Grille, Ely, Nevada

Miner's Cabin

“Cabin Ruins” poster

shoe tree bw 10mb

Postcard of “Shoe Tree”

miner statute Ely bw 10mb

Postcard of Statue of Miner, Ely

“The Great Awakening,” poem by Day Williams

The Great Awakening

Wake up! Strengthen what remains
and is about to die,
for I have found your deeds
unfinished in the sight of my God.

~Revelation 3:2


The people’s faith has grown
The people are stout
The trumpet is blown
The call has gone out

They come
From the mills and landfills and Capitol Hill
Eagle keepers, street sweepers, and Grim Reapers
Wine tasters, time wasters, fast-paced racers
Jugglers, strugglers, and smugglers

Yes, they come
From the rivers, the hearses, and the twitterverse
Grifters, snifters, and High Plains Drifters
Entrepreneurs and connoisseurs
Jesus freaks and genius geeks on winning streaks

They come
The winners, the sinners, and the tale-spinners
Quakers, film makers, and undertakers
The saints and painters and complainers
Music posers, high-pressure closers, drivers of dozers


The trumpet resounds
Over prairies and hills
Over cities and towns
Over factories and mills

They come
The man with broken bones whose wife left him alone
The hungry thirsty mayor whose days are piled with cares
The heartbroken teen sprawled in a meadow green
Baseball pitcher whose arm has come to harm

Yes, they come
The man in a park, nowhere to go after dark
The special needs boy who worships Jesus in joy
Ex-pats and sexpots and Texan tots
Song and dance men, bong and chance men, strong romance men

They come
Models who pose, hallway hobos, sopranos on oboes,
The snakes, the fakes, and the half-baked flakes
Rappers, catnappers, and gift-wrappers
The astronauts, cosmonauts, and sailors of yachts


The people awake
The Spirit inspires
The darkness will break
With people on fire

They come
Traitors, infiltrators, and self-inflators
Homewreckers, high-techers, and vivisectioners
Chambermaids, underpaids, patients with AIDS,
Lumberjacks, bumbling hacks, and crackerjacks

Yes, they come
Youtubers, eaters of goobers, drivers for Uber
Experts in guile, film stars in style, and juveniles
Flapjack flippers, big tippers, and back alley strippers,
One-wing angels, land sharks, pickup artists


The way has been paved
The Light shines every mile
The disgraceful depraved
Will sink in their bile

They come
Prophets of old, worth more than gold,
Pay-for-Players and bureaucratic delayers
Golf club queens, editors of magazines,
Matrix busters, street hustlers, and cattle rustlers

Yes, they come
Corn poppers, grillers of Whoppers, pilots of choppers
Photo buffs, sniffers of snuff, sifters of truffles
Bumblers, tumblers, and cookie-crumblers
Carsonites, troglodytes, and defenders of rights

They come
Visionquesters, Wild Westers, and protesters
The trail guides, the mail-order brides, the hair-dyed self-satisfied
Van Goghs, Picassos, and Michelangelos
Mings with rings, kings with bling, Things that sing


They will eat the bread
On which angels feed
And at the watershed
They’ll release their greed

They come
The tweeters, the cheaters, and the over-eaters
Mockers, talkers, and tightrope walkers
Three-inch fools, builders of schools, and women with jewels
Desert harpists and quick-change artists

Yes, they come
Deep Staters, Prez-Haters, conflaters
Bumblers, tumblers, and cookie-crumblers
Sore losers, day boozers, and shmoozers
Tower builders, power lifters, High Plains Drifters

They come
Bomb disposers, high-pressure closers, drivers of dozers,
Punners, hit and runners, school bus tailgunners
Smokers, stockbrokers, and Arthur the Joker
Gay activists who twist amid the mist


With hearts newly cleaned
The crowds have surged
The people have seen
That the truth has emerged

They come

Rogues and droogies and couples at movies,
High-stakes winners at posh dinners with sinners
Marxists, podiatrists, and anthologists
“I” dotters, “t” crossers, and spy spotters

Yes, they come

X-22, Chiefs of Sioux, and Fredo too
Salad tossers, shy doctors, and double-crossers
Bed-pressers, oppressors, and professors
Preachers and teachers high on the bleachers

Bed-wetters, go-getters, and jet-setters
Hackers, frackers, and meat packers
Princess Bride and Pride Declassified
Yip-Yip Young, the Flying Nun, and favorite sons


They come to the mountain
And connect with the Lord
They come to the fountain
With their faith restored

They come
Housewives on the go and Quid Pro Quo Joe
Town criers, high flyers, and Brooklyn choirs
P.C. Police, actors from Grease, obese nieces
T.V. writers, check kiters, and backbiters

Yes, they come
Mentors, dissenters, and inventors
Sneakers, leakers, and public speakers
Cab drivers, lab timers, and flabby divers,
Word-twisters, blacklisters, and three weird sisters

They come
Midnight plumbers and midsummer hit-and-runners
Corrupt politicians in double demolitions
Renegades who masquerade as gay blades
QAnons, black swans, and Pentagon woebegones

They come to the mountain
And connect with the Lord
They come to the fountain
With their faith restored

~Day Williams

Self-portrait, print by Day Williams



1 On that same day King Xerxes gave Queen Esther

The wealth of Haman, enemy of Jews.

And Mordecai did come before the king,

For Esther had told how he was related  

To her. 2 The king removed his signet ring,

Which he’d reclaimed from Haman, and gave it

To Mordecai. And Esther did put him 

               In charge of Haman’s wealth. 3 Again she begged

               King Xerxes, falling at his feet and weeping.

She pled with him to end the evil plan

Hatched by the Agagite named Haman, which

Vile plan he had devised against the Jews. 

4 The king held out to Esther the gold scepter

               And she arose and stood before him. 5 “Now

               If it does please the king,” she said, “and if

He does regard me with his favor and

Thinks it the right thing he should do, and if

He’s pleased with me, permit an order to

Be written overruling dispatches

That Haman son of Hammedatha, who’s

An Agagite, devised and wrote to kill

The Jews in all of the king’s provinces. 

6 How can I bear to see disaster fall

Upon my people? And how can I bear

To see my family destroyed?” 7 King Xerxes

Said to Queen Esther and to Mordecai

The Jew, “As Haman has attacked the Jews,

I’ve given all his wealth to Esther, and

They have impaled him on the pole which he

Set up. 8 Now write another edict in

The king’s name in the Jews’ behalf as seems

Best to you; seal it with your signet ring—

Because no document that’s written in

The king’s name and that’s sealed with his own ring

Can be revoked.” 9 The royal secretaries

Were promptly summoned—and it was the twenty-

Third day of the third month, the month of Sivan,

And they wrote out all Mordecai’s commands

To Jews, and to the satraps, governors

And nobles of the hundred twenty-seven

Provinces that encompassed area

From India to Cush.They wrote these orders

In native script from every province and

               In every people’s tongue and also to

               The Jews in their own script and language, 10 and

Mordecai wrote and used the name of King

Xerxes; with the king’s signet ring, he sealed

The dispatches, and by mounted couriers

He sent them, and the couriers rode fast

Horses especially bred to serve the king.

11 The edict of the king permitted Jews

In every city rights to gather and

Protect themselves; to kill, destroy, and wipe

Out the armed men of any province or

Nationality who might strike against

Them and their women and their children, and

To plunder the property of foes. 12 The day

Appointed for the Jews to do this in

King Xerxes’ provinces was in the month

Of Adar, in the twelfth month, thirteenth day.

13 A copy of the edict’s text was to

Be issued as a law in every province

And told to every nationality’s

People so that the Jews would be prepared

On that day to avenge themselves upon

Their enemies. 14 The couriers, who rode

The royal horses, went out, spurred on by

The king’s command, so that the edict was

Issued in Susa’s citadel.  15 Now when

Mordecai left the presence of the king,

He dressed in royal garments, blue and white,

Wore a gold crown and a purple robe

Made with fine linen, and the city of

Susa rejoiced, 16 because for Jews it was

A time of happiness and joy, of gladness

And honor.17 In each province and each city

Where the king’s edict came, the Jews had joy

And gladness, and had feasts and celebrations.

People of other nationalities

Became Jews, for the fear of Jews had seized them.

~Day Williams

Columbo: Case of Vince Foster’s “Suicide”: Murder Will Out, Lt. Columbo On the Case

Vince Foster Murder Cover-up


Proof of the FBI and OIC cover-up was published in a 538-page book Failure of the Public Trust (2006 ed.) available to download here.

Corresponding exhibits of documents to footnotes in the book are available here.

Ken Starr cover-up Vince Foster Murder
Vince Foster friend of Hillary Clinton

The Starr Report on the Death of Vincent W. Foster includes evidence of the cover-up by the Independent Counsel.

Did Kenneth Starr lead the criminal cover-up inside the Office of Independent Counsel?

Hillary Clinton “was in complete shock and disbelief at the thought of Foster committing suicide.”

Attorney John H. Clarke, grand jury witness Patrick Knowlton, and researcher Hugh Turley co-authored the final twenty pages of Ken Starr’s Report on the Death of Vincent W. Foster, Jr.  


As Foster’s ghost
Haunts clinton halls,
Survivors toast
Themselves at balls.


 O Blessed God, Who art so true and deep!
Lo, how Thou dost turn murder out alway!
Murder will out, we see it every day.
Murder’s so hateful and abominable
To God, Who is so just and reasonable,
That He’ll not suffer that it hidden be;
Though it may skulk a year, or two, or three,
Murder will out, and I conclude thereon.

Laissez Faire Electronic Times ^ | January 2, 1998 | P.J. Gladnick

Posted by PJ-Comix

(President Clinton is sitting at his desk in the Oval Office. A voice is heard on his intercom. It is his secretary.)

SECRETARY: Mr. President, Lieutenant Columbo is here to see you.

(The Oval Office door opens a bit. Columbo peeks in tentatively.)

COLUMBO: I hope I’m not disturbing you, Mr. President.

CLINTON (smiling broadly): Not at all! I heard that you were visiting the White House. That’s why I had my people take you off the tour line to see me. I’ve always been a big fan of yours.

(Columbo, puffing on a cigar and wearing a wrinkled raincoat, walks in a slouching manner up to Clinton. A beaming Clinton stands up from behind his desk and heartily shakes Columbo’s hand.)

COLUMBO: Mr. President, this is indeed an honor. Let me tell you, my wife is a big fan of yours. Sir, I don’t mean to impose but do you think you can autograph a photo for my wife?

CLINTON: Heck, that’s no problem. I’ll be happy to oblige.

(Clinton pulls a photo of himself from his desk, signs it, and hands it to Columbo.)

COLUMBO: This is terrific! You don’t know what this will mean to my wife. Uhh, before I go, do you mind if I ask you a personal question?

CLINTON: Huh? Okay, sure.

COLUMBO: Could you tell me how much you paid for your suit? I really admire the material.

CLINTON: I, umm, think it cost about $500.

COLUMBO: And so clean too. With a suit like that you must send it out to the cleaners after each time you wear it.

CLINTON: Of course.

COLUMBO: Well, this is what’s bothering me. I heard that your good friend, the late Vincent Foster, was also a nice dresser yet there were carpet fibers discovered all over his suit when they found him after his tragic suicide in Fort Marcy Park.

(Clinton’s smile turns a bit tense.)


COLUMBO: So it seems like a mystery how all these fibers ended up on his suit. You might pick up a few carpet fibers around the bottom of the pants but not all over the suit.

CLINTON: I think the FBI determined that the carpet fibers probably came from his home.

COLUMBO: That is only an assumption because the FBI never actually took samples from the carpet fibers at his home. With all those fibers on his suit, you would think that they would make a comparison.

CLINTON (Slightly exasperated): Look, Lieutenant Columbo, there have already been three investigations into this matter and they all ruled that Vince Foster committed suicide.

COLUMBO: Oh, I’m not questioning the investigations. I’m sure Mr. Foster died just the way they said but there are still a few loose ends.

CLINTON: Such as?

COLUMBO: Such as the autopsy X-rays.

CLINTON: What about the X-rays?

COLUMBO: Dr. James Beyer, the Deputy Medical Examiner for Northern Virginia, conducted the autopsy but no X-rays were taken.

CLINTON: No X-rays were taken? That’s absurd! They must have been taken in a case of this importance.

COLUMBO: Dr. Beyer checked off a box on the autopsy report stating that he took X-rays yet he later claimed the X-ray machine was inoperable.

CLINTON: Aren’t you forgetting the suicide note that Foster left behind?

COLUMBO (slaps forehead with his hand): That’s right! The suicide note! Obviously, it must have been suicide if Foster left behind a suicide note.

(Clinton looks cheerful again.)

CLINTON: I guess that closes the case then.

COLUMBO: It sure does! Mr. President, you don’t know how relieved this makes me feel. I’m sorry to have taken up your time with this matter.

CLINTON: Think nothing of it.

(Columbo leaves through the door and Clinton returns to his desk. A few moments later the door opens again and Columbo leans just inside the doorway.)

COLUMBO: Uhh, there’s just one little point that I overlooked.

CLINTON (looking irritated): What is it, Lieutenant Columbo?

COLUMBO: How do we know that the suicide note was actually written by Mr. Foster?

CLINTON: The suicide note’s handwriting was analyzed and judged to be authentic.

COLUMBO: Yes, by a Capitol police sergeant who only studied handwriting as a hobby. The fact of the matter is that three renowned handwriting experts including Reginald Alton of Oxford University determined that the note, supposedly written by Mr. Foster, was an obvious forgery.

CLINTON: Lieutenant Columbo, are you one of those conspiracy kooks? The autopsy report, even without the X-rays, proved it was a suicide.

(Columbo reaches inside his raincoat and pulls out a couple of sheets of paper.)

COLUMBO: The strange thing is that the official finding says it was a mouth-to-head wound yet take a look at the report of the Fairfax County Medical Examiner, Dr. Haut. It came from the National Archives and was placed on the Internet from where I downloaded it.

(Columbo hands the papers to Clinton.)

Clinton: Hmm . . . It says that the wound was “mouth-head” just like the official report.

COLUMBO: Yes, but look at the word “head.” It’s obvious that was typed in after another word just to its left was whited out. Then if you look on the second page of Haut’s report it actually says the wounds were “mouth to neck.” I submit, sir, that the first page was altered to change the wound location.

CLINTON: The bottom line is that, despite these discrepancies, the investigators have determined that Vince Foster committed suicide in Fort Marcy Park.

COLUMBO: Oh, sir. I’m not disputing their expertise. It’s just that professional police officers are trained to treat every death as a homicide until suicide is proven. In this case, however, Cheryl Braun, the senior Park Police Officer, testified that they determined that Foster had committed suicide before they had even inspected the body.

CLINTON: This is all very interesting theory but the fact is that the Foster case has been ruled a suicide. Case closed.

COLUMBO: I’m sure you’re right about that. After all, if those in authority say it was a suicide, then it must be so. Well, good day, Mr. President. Sorry for troubling you about details that must have some logical explanation.

CLINTON: Thank you for visiting, Lieutenant Columbo, and goodbye.

(Columbo leaves the room. Clinton returns to his desk and begins writing on some papers. A little while later we see Columbo looking from the outside into the Oval Office through a window just behind Clinton. Columbo begins tapping on the window. At first Clinton doesn’t hear him. Then he turns around and opens the window.)

CLINTON: Columbo! What is your problem?

(Columbo bends over and then stands back up again holding his shoes.)

COLUMBO: See all that dirt on the soles of my shoes?

CLINTON: Okay, they’re dirty. So what?

COLUMBO: It’s just like when my cousin Guido visits me. He likes working in my yard which is great but my wife throws a fit when Guido tries to walk into the house because of all the dirt on his shoes.

CLINTON: Will you please get to the point, Columbo!

COLUMBO: Well, the FBI scraped Mr. Foster’s shoes thoroughly but found no traces of soil. Everybody else who walked in the area of Fort Marcy Park where Foster was found came away with lots of dirt on their shoes.

CLINTON: You’re wrong, Columbo. A forensic expert found soil on Foster’s shoes.

COLUMBO: Oh yes. Henry Lee thought he found microscopic quantities of the soil on the shoes long after the FBI carefully went over them. Lee was the same fellow who determined that OJ Simpson must have been innocent because he thought he saw another footprint which never existed at the murder scene. Somehow I don’t think Mr. Lee is the most reliable expert in this regard.

CLINTON: Are you trying to say that Foster did not commit suicide in Fort Marcy Park?

COLUMBO: I think that could be a distinct possibility, sir. I’m sure that you, having been a friend of Mr. Foster, would want to leave no stone unturned to get to the bottom of this matter.

CLINTON: Just what do you expect me to do?

COLUMBO: It would be helpful if you could make the videotape from the White House parking lot surveillance camera available. We need to see Mr. Foster entering his car on the day he died.

CLINTON: That tape is missing from the White House vault where it was stored.

COLUMBO: Then how about the videotape from the vault surveillance camera? Maybe we can find out who removed the parking lot video from the vault.

CLINTON: The vault video is missing too. Perhaps the parking lot camera never caught Foster entering his car?

COLUMBO: At the most guarded building in the world? Not likely. As a matter of fact I’m sure that cameras are watching me right now and that Secret Service guards should be apprehending me at any moment.

(Suddenly several uniformed guards grab Columbo and haul him away.)

COLUMBO (shouting from the distance): This has been a really enlightening conversation, Mr. President! I hope we can pick up where we left off in the near future!

(Clinton slams the window shut.)


Vincent Walker “Vince” Foster, Jr. (January 15, 1945 – July 20, 1993) was a Deputy White House Counsel during the first few months of President Bill Clinton‘s administration.



Vince Foster

Vince Foster, man I never knew, I ask:
Into what pit of secrets did you fall?
Now that you’re dead, I wonder what dark task
Caused you to earn a bullet in your skull.

Ever a conscientious man, the mask
Washington made you wear along the Mall
Aggravated the doubts– and in that flask,
Soiled worldly power, they made you guzzle, crawled

Known venom, closer, closer to the blood
In line of fire, until your heart was numbed
Like Arctic toes and fingers. So the mud,
Like flooded cities, swirled and squished the scum

Ever nearer to those you thought were friends . . .
Dust you are, Vince, and they’ll make no amends.

~Day Williams

Vince Foster II
What did Foster do,

That he should end up dead?
Was it some person that he knew
Or something that he read?
What did Foster do,
That he should end up dead?

I will punish the world for its evil, and the wicked for their iniquity; I will put an end to the pomp of the arrogant, and lay low the pompous pride of the ruthless.

~Isaiah 13:11 (ESV)

Everywhere Hillary goes, evidence goes missing.

Series: “Doodle Animals” by Day Williams

horse turtle

Custom Print                                                          Custom Print

Zentangle beetle  Zentangle butterfly

Custom Print                                                       Custom Print

Zentangle dove                  Zentangle eagle

Custom Print                                              Custom Print

Zentangle fox  Zentangle hippo


Zentangle whaleZentangle rabbit

Custom Print                                                      Custom Print


“Cove 19,” a poem by Day Williams

Cove 19

The haz-mat suits wear fire-proof boots
As they incinerate
The citizens in Wahoo dens
Who failed their fight with fate

Down by the shore at Cove 19

Fear is a drug that motivates thugs
To hit the campaign trail;
They lack the brains to break their chains
And their pandering will fail

Down by the shore at Cove 19

Store shelves are bare, people are scared,
Panic’s an electric charge
No one escapes the distant cape
With speedboat, sub, or barge

Down by the shore at Cove 19

The owner of the cove, he loves
To claim the land’s too crowded
But after his wine, he still did resign:
White Hats have him rerouted

Down by the shore at Cove 19

Ambush prepared, good men beware,
The Dark Snakes will spring traps,
See through the lies they dramatize
And stand strong in the gap

Down by the shore at Cove 19

Stock market tanked, no one to thank
But boys in cryptic clubs;
Sure they were kings, they did the things
Unthinkable in pubs

Down by the shore at Cove 19

With “No” to Christ and “Yes” to vice
They concocted a golden shower;
They knew it was wrong but played along
For pleasure, money and power

Down by the shore at Cove 19

Their evil plans, turned back by hands
Skilled in silent success,
Have boomeranged upon the gang
That puts a man in a dress

Down by the shore at Cove 19

The rabbit holes plugged, the bloody thugs
Don’t have a place to go
The talking heads are walking dead,
Afraid to go to their shows

Down by the shore at Cove 19

In darkness ten days give God the praise:
The mudslides will be cleared;
The Watchmen call to one and all:
The time of Christ is near

Down by the shore at Cove 19

The Plan, foretold, is swift and bold,
No one escapes the hook
Around the neck for the lives wrecked
By spirit cooks and crooks

Down by the shore at Cove 19

Given a choice, they can rejoice
Their legacies will endure,
But they will die and they know why:
They ravished the young and the pure

Down by the shore at Cove 19

People awake to sneer at snakes
That poisoned the vines and roots;
They understand they dwell in a land
Which can bear the richest of fruits

Down by the shore at Cove 19

The one maligned had a design
That put the people first
With help from the best he passed the test:
A fountain of freedom will burst

Down by the shore at Cove 19
Down by the shore at Cove 19

~Day Williams 3/17/20