A poem from the manuscript,
The Solstice Book,
was recently published
in
(February 2025 Issue)
It’s a poem that was part
of a series written over the last twelve years on or around The Winter
Solstice.
Here’s the beginning of the poem:
Colors
1.
The
sun’s a grey aureole behind grey
clouds. Wind rattles a dead hollyhock.
Two shriveled, yellow petals, still
cling to the stalk. Color retreats from
the cold, sinks beneath the surface of
its own skin…
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In other news:
Once again, there arises within me the intense experience of shame and rage over the conduct of my country/government: the recent bullying sneak attack on Zelensky by Trump and Vance, recklessly firing thousands of federal workers, initiation of negotiations to continue US genocidal policies in Gaza to create real estate riches, trade wars against allies and alliances with authoritarian regimes (not new that…but never on this scale of cooperation, submissiveness, and pleasure in the consequent cruelty and death that will result), all done with the endless repetition of lies.
As Joseph Goebbels (Nazi Minister of Propaganda) said: A lie told once remains a lie, but a lie told a thousand times becomes the truth. With that in mind, here’s a recent poem:
Lies
I am working on a sculpture shaped
by lies; the lies we breathe everyday
like water, the lies we breathe every-
day like sand. Lies born in winter,
that batter against glass, fall dead in
small, brittle piles on the windowsill.
I add more to the sculpture each day:
microscopic lies, size of a virus, that
rise from carpet stains, ride dust motes
through sunlight, burrow deep into the
skin; lies with hooks and suckers that
anchor themselves to intestinal walls,
feed off digested food; lies that re-
semble dark monuments, great steel
girders, relay towers, too big to fail,
that send out arcs of green light as they
fold and crash; lies that we breathe
like metal dust, like house-fire smoke.
I add more: lies that mimic the shape
of severed ears, fingers, disintegrating
faces, buried in shallow ravines; lies
with the texture of wet dollar bills
pasted together to make papier-mâché
masks to cover the stunned expressions
of the dead; lies that resemble wigs
made of corn silk, given as prizes for
those who create one massive master-
piece of a lie out of the whirling black
clouds of tiny lies rising and falling
within the constant ripples of heat; lies
that appear to be twisted pieces pulled
from the wreckage, still hot, flesh and
chrome melted together; lies long and
lacerating as lynching ropes. I keep
adding more: lies that are the jaws of
famine, the burning tires of war, the
falling ashes of despair; lies we breathe
like benzene, like asbestos fibers; lies
that shine like the newly minted medals
named STANDING TALL and BIG
TOUGHBOY pinned on men who are
constantly reminding us how brave they
are, sitting on their gold toilets, playing
with themselves; lies we breathe like
parathion, like chlorine. And the real in
“reality’ abandons gravity, floats away.
And the true in “truth”, when heated,
becomes unstable, breaks down, sepa-
rates. Each morning I piece the lies to-
gether. I do it slowly, as slowly as pos-
sible, stalling, try to take my time, find
distractions, because when I finally fin-
ish there will be nothing left of the
world but this hideous sculpture.
*****************************************
The Next World:
available now
at the links
below:
If you want to read the book and don't have the money to buy it, ask your local library to order it.
All Hail the Free Libraries of the US!
