Artistic License

We scorn but secretly admire those creative geniuses who
care only for their art and selfishly indulge themselves
in whatever keeps their creative juices flowing.

The musician who soars in heroin-induced improvisations.
The artist who paints nude portraits of his young mistress.
The writer who drafts crime novels from an alcoholic haze.

We fantasize about their freedom and envy their ability
to engage in wanton artistic expression that brings
artistic gratification but not happiness.

On-line petitions

We love to sign on-line petitions.
It makes us feel like we’re doing something
when in reality, we’re submitting our names
to on-line marketers who can then
dun us for contributions.

It’s like masturbatory civic engagement.
It feels good, but doesn’t amount to much.

Real civic engagement is physically getting involved,
talking face-to-face with those of similar view,
challenging those with opposing views,
communicating our views with those in power
and not hiding behind feelings of powerlessness.

But I'm just too busy today.

The History Book of Lovers

In the big history book of lovers, we’ll be on page fifty-seven.
That’s the page where they talk about the couples that weren’t supposed to last,
but defied the odds and overcame the differences.

We’ll also be mentioned on page one hundred and twenty-nine,
the page where they talk about the couples that cared enough to help each other
carry the baggage they each brought along for the ride.

You'll find us on page three hundred and five where they talk about
the couples that remembered their marriage vows in spite of infidelities
and periods of disenchantment.

And we’ll be there on page eight hundred and thirteen,
where they talk about couples who learned and grew from each other,
that started out with little but ended up rich in loving memories.

We’ll also be listed in the index on page thirteen hundred and forty-one
under couples that were stubborn enough to earn
the comfort that comes with a lifetime of love.

Failed poets society meeting

They sit hunched over in the circle of metal
church basement chairs, clutching scraps of paper
and reading their pitiful poetry to the others,
each voice hungrier for praise than the last.

The long silence at the end of each poem,
is broken by an awkward comment on
the meter or the metaphor or the alliteration,
salve for wounded and bleeding egos.

Poetic Injustice

I sit with fingers poised over asdfjkl;
waiting for a metaphor to come to mind
that illustrates the way I feel.

Nothing happens.

I search my random access memory for
a keyword that will trigger a long-forgotten
experience from my childhood.

Nothing happens.

How is it the big-time poets can
always recall some prophetic image
that happened forty years ago?

With me, nothing happens.

The dogs of war

feed on the carcasses
of young men and women
who are tricked into believing
that profit is not the motive.

The military trafficks
in innocent young people
who are lured into performing
illegal and immoral acts.

Innocent teenagers are turned into
war whores by uniformed pimps
who are rewarded with lifetime
retirement pensions.

Worthless minds and bodies

As we endlessly regurgitate and analyze
America’s misadventures in Afghanistan,
how do we tell the soldiers who survived
and the families of those who didn’t
that their lives were worth nothing?

How do we explain to our sons and daughters that
the excruciating pain of lost limbs and tortured minds
was suffered for no reason other than to feed the
bloodlust of myopic politicians and fill the coffers
of mercenary weapons manufacturers?

Incremental Bipartisanship

“Bipartisanship” in Washington over the last 30 years has undone much of the consumer, financial, civil rights and environmental protection for middle class Americans. As a life-long Democrat, I have listened to Democrat politicians preach bipartisan incremental change for the last 50 years.

Black and Hispanic Americans have been told by Democrats to be patient -- their time will come.

Working class Americans have been told by Democrats to be patient -- you can’t simply raise the minimum wage to a living wage because it will stifle the economy.

Americans who can’t afford their prescriptions are told by Democrats to be patient – we’re working on it.

Victims of structural racism are told by Democrats to be patient -- it will take time to reform law enforcement and lending practices.

People worried about the environment have been told by Democrats to be patient -- you can’t change everything at once.

All the while, Republican leaders in Washington have come right out and stated that Democratic programs are going nowhere.

Where is the bipartisanship? It feels more like capitulation to me.

Corporate-supported Democrat and Republican collaboration has dragged the middle far to the right. As long as Democrats subscribe to incremental bipartisanship, they’re not acting in the best interest of their constituents. They’re protecting the interests of their donors, and the middle class is losing ground.

As long as the filibuster is allowed to continue, there will be no real bipartisanship. As long as there are several times as many lobbyists in the Capitol building as there are Senators and Representatives, there will be no real bipartisanship. And the American people will have to wait for change.

Jetsam

Day by day,
week by week,
month by month,
they float away from me;
all the things that have
seemed so important
in my life are slowly
losing importance.
First my colleagues,
then my profession,
my sexuality,
my passion
and my pride.

Each day that goes by,
my interest in my art
and my writing fades
with the realization
that none of them
will matter on the day
after I leave this world.

The knowledge I gathered
and the skills I acquired
during my brief time here:
the differences between Goudy and Garamond,
the value of contrast in graphic design,
how to repack and adjust wheel bearings on an car,
the right way to hold dagger brush to paint a smooth pin stripe,
how to compose a good photograph,
or how to synchronize dual SU carburetors.

All arcane information and skills
of no use to anyone but me.

The Real Snowflakes

The real snowflakes are the frightened,
racist, right-wing crybabies who
wave their guns and confederate flags
around in the futile attempt to cover up
their fear of imaginary boogeywomen.

Autogyro

Reality war movies

The politicians write the scripts,
choose the locations
and cast the players.

The generals select the score
and direct the scenes
but they never seem able
to envision the ending.

The soldiers play the roles,
kill the children
and suffer the wounds.

No matter the outcome,
the politicians write
rave reviews.

Missed Instructions

I don’t remember when they handed out the instructions
on how to be a man. I may have been drawing or playing
with toys, but I never learned how to be brave
or competitive or seductive or persuasive or decisive.

I know what those qualities look like but I can never
seem to assimilate them into my persona.
They feel like clothes I will never grow into, a sport
I will never master and a language I will never speak.

Retirement Time Warp

Time simultaneously slows down and speeds up.

The days seem long even as the weeks fly by
and the months evaporate into years.
My memories are long evening shadows
cast behind me at the sunset of my life.

How many days, months, years are left
before the sun drops below the horizon
and my thoughts and accomplishments
fade into darkness?

Spiritual Illness

Our society is not well.

America has developed a spiritual
illness that is eating away
at our collective soul.

Our desires have become infected
and developed into a fever of
selfishness and self-entitlement.

Our lives must be filled
with continuous excitement,
indulgence and fulfillment.

Our avarice has become so great
that our pleasures overrule the
basic needs of other humans
with whom we share this planet.

There is no vaccine.

Power Policing

Back in the early 1970s, I got a small taste of police profiling long before it had even been named.

I was into being contrary; but because I had a family to support, I couldn’t afford to “drop out”. I worked as an illustrator for a large corporation and chose to express my individuality in my personal style within the confines of the business environment.

I grew shoulder-length hair and a generous beard. A shirt and tie were the appropriate attire for work, so I wore colored shirts with wide flowered and paisley ties. Flared-leg pants were in fashion, and I had many pairs. In short, I was pushing the limits of business acceptability – being a thorn in the side of many of my conservative coworkers. I was a good illustrator, so I got away with it.

The most outward expression of my individuality was my car. I drove a 1967 Volvo Duett, which resembled a 1940s panel truck in ¾ scale. The car was in immaculate condition with shiny dark blue paint, bright orange wheels and oversized tires, brightly-colored floral curtains in the windows and a loud exhaust system. It made a statement.

That statement came at a cost, however. I was repeatedly stopped by the police for all kinds of insignificant reasons. The most common was a few miles per hour over the speed limit.

The routine was always the same: “Do you know why I stopped you? Can I see your license and registration? Where are you going?”

If my wife was with me: “Who is that woman?” If the kids were along, “Are these your children?”

Then: “I’ll be right back.”

After a few minutes, the officer would return with my license, registration and recommendations: “I’m not giving you a written warning this time (for what?) Everything seems in order, but make sure to take it easy on this road.”

I got used to it for the five years I drove the car. It seemed like the cost for my individuality.

I cut my hair some and replaced the car in 1976 with a non-descript blue Mazda sedan. It dawned on me a year later that I hadn’t been stopped by the police.

That’s insignificant to what young black men endure in 2021 all the time. I was never in danger of being beaten or even murdered. I was a pain in the ass, but my skin was the right color.

Racism is not a right

Let’s get this out on the table right up front. Racism is not a right.

In spite of what white supremacists would like us to believe, the United States Constitution does not justify racism. There is nothing in Christian doctrine that justifies racism. Quite simply, racism is an ugly and hateful crime. And those who actively practice it are criminals.

Racism is based on fear and greed. It is a way for selfish people to justify the domination and exploitation of Black, Indigenous, People of Color. It was used to justify the kidnapping and enslavement of African people. It was used to justify genocide against Indigenous American people. It was used to justify the internment of Asian Americans. It has been used to justify the exploitation of Hispanic and Latino people. And it continues to be used to justify the murder of Black Americans by police.

Americans take pride in the First Amendment to our Constitution. It allows white supremacists to share their beliefs. Taking action on those beliefs, however, is a crime against the rights of other Americans. Any American who infringes on or jeopardizes the rights of other Americans should face the consequences of their illegal behavior.

We can’t legislate away racist beliefs, but we can and must criminalize racism.

Racism Recovery for White People

It’s not just BIPOC minds and bodies that need to heal from White supremacy. White minds and bodies need to heal from the racist poison we were raised on.

While White people will never be able to fully comprehend the impact of multi-generational trauma that has been inflicted on BIPOC people, we have our own recovery work to do. White people have witnessed the people we love and trust express racist hatred. We have kept secret the beatings and lynching our parents and grandparents have perpetrated against other human beings. We have been conditioned to be racist to one degree or another, whether we admit it or not.

There has been a lot of discussion about BIPOC people internalizing racism and oppression. There is less talk about how White people have internalized our reciprocal role in this racist relationship. And it’s up to us to begin our own recovery and stop telling BIPOC people to “get over it.”

The first step in our recovery is recognizing the racism of our ancestors and how it has influenced us. Like recovery from addiction, this is very difficult and emotional work. It forces us to face our conflicting feelings of supremacy and guilt. It requires us to be not just intellectually cognizant of the effects of racism, but to feel them in our gut.

We must try to understand what it feels like to have your father lynched by a racist mob, your adolescent son murdered by a racist police officer, your whole extended family slaughtered by the United States Army, and your grandparents forced into internment camps because of their nationality. We must face the fact that our immediate ancestors exploited and dominated BIPOC people out of greed and racial supremacy.

Only then can White people begin to recover from our role in this inhumane and unforgiveable behavior. Only then can we truly separate ourselves from our ancestors’ racism and recover our own non-racist identity. Only then can we stop trying to prove we’re not racists and fully embrace BIPOC people as our equals.

And it’s not one-and-done. It’s a lifelong commitment to change. It’s creating a new persona that we choose for ourselves. Not one that we blindly inherited from our predecessors. And it doesn’t require us to all become activists. Only that we live our lives as we believe human beings should live, in defiance of the racism around us.

If we want to heal our society from the deadly disease of racism, we need to do our part. It’s our disease after all.

The false concept of race

I was taught about the three races in grade school: Caucasian, Negroid and Mongoloid; the white, black and yellow races as they were commonly called. But what exactly is a race? And where do brown people fit in?

The concept of race seems to have been invented by biologists and anthropologists historically trying to categorize humans on the basis of supposed physical or genetic differences. With the development of genetics, however, scientists no longer recognize race as a biologically valid classification because there is more genetic variation within races than between them.

If there is no genetic difference between humans with different color skins, then what is the function of dividing people by race other than ranking them?

The answer is that it has historically served the interests of white people to justify the concept that people of color are not as valuable as white people.

White people cling to this false concept because it lets us control opportunity. It supports the twisted version of history we need to absolve our collective guilt for the oppression, enslavement and genocide we have inflicted on humans we believe are our inferiors. It justifies our greed, our domination, and our indifference.

This malignant discrimination has been baked into the human spirit for hundreds of years, and we pass down this malignancy from generation to generation like a cancerous gene.

PTSD & Racism

We accept that post-traumatic stress disorder is real and has long-term consequences that can permeate multiple generations. Victims and even witnesses of violence can carry emotional scars that affect their relationships with spouses, family and children long after the abuse ends.

We sympathize with veterans who are unable to have functional relationships with family and friends due to the trauma of war. We recognize the difficulties that survivors of childhood sexual abuse have in building trusting relationships with adults. We respect them for their courage in facing the demons from their past.

So why is it that we dismiss the trauma that generations of BIPOC (Black and Indigenous People of Color) have suffered at the hands of white people. Multiple generations of black people who have watched their grandparents, parents, children and grandchildren treated like animals by white people. Multiple generations of indigenous people who witnessed genocide perpetrated on their loved ones by white people. Multiple generations of Asian people who have been beaten and called derogatory names by white people.

BIPOC survivors of multi-generational trauma are dismissed as lazy or unmotivated or angry or ungrateful, even as white people continue to traumatize them. These survivors should be respected for their courage and strength in facing demons that keep coming back.

Until white people accept that we are the demons there will be no change. Until we accept that race is a pernicious myth invented by us to exert our domination over people with different colored skin, there will be no healing.

21st Century Strange Fruit

The murder of Black people by police
in 21st Century America Is nothing less than
the continuation of 2oth Century lynching.

Black bodies hanging from trees is now
Black bodies beaten on social media.

White eyes turned away then
and turn away now.

White Cocoon

Here in northern New England, the houses
are mostly white and so are the people.
The nighttime silence is only broken by
an 18-wheeler a mile away on the interstate.
I see racial injustice online and on TV,
but it’s far away and unreal because
I’m not on the receiving end of the abuse.
I’m not afraid for the lives of my
two adolescent great-grandsons.
I’m not in danger if stopped by the police.
Everyone in town knows me.
I’m white. I fit in.

I often feel ashamed of my privilege
and my inability to make a difference.
My contributions to Americares,
the Native American Heritage Association
and the Southern Poverty Law Conference
spread salve on the shame but don’t amount to much.
Watching musicians from around the world
in Playing for Change videos makes me
feel like I’m part of something.
But in the end I’m just a privileged
white guy in a white cocoon.

Jim Crow Justice

On the racial spectrum of black to white,
Americans experience more power and privilege
the closer the color of their skin is to white,
and less power and privilege the closer it is to black.

Covert Comfort

I live in covert racist comfort,
self-assured in my sympathy
for the injustices people of color
endure every day of their lives
in the land of the free
and the home of the brave.