Fascism’s Forest

All together now! Puppet faces others, all with raised hands

Every time he speaks

I hear the bluster and the lie

and what my mother taught me

about empty barrels

making the loudest noise

bubbles up inside

And I wonder how

the plainly evident

gets skewed in the eyes

of so many others

what did their mothers

teach them about

boisterous bullies and

skirt-chasing scoundrels

Perhaps the words

were never spoken

or maybe only as a token

and so,

we have the lost and broken

Unable to separate

the shit from shinola

they bend to the viciously simplistic

The fake paternalistic


how to rule the rest

They never question

they simply fall in line

No matter the level of asinine

As we march democracy

towards that empty pit

in fascism’s forest

we hope against hope

that eyes will open

before that final blast

to the back of the head

America 2020


Stop asking, “what’s become of us?”

America was cut from and scarred by intolerance and bigotry early on, the deep wound concealed halfheartedly by a cheaply applied varnish of “American” ideals.

Under the hot and hateful glare of this president, the varnish has evaporated, and that once concealed scar appears on our society’s skin. You can run your thumb over its jagged ugliness — its toothy sneer snakes across the heartland like a drug-resistant malignancy. Fed by an unrelenting wave of lies, conspiracy theories, and half-truths (shared by the masses like communion wafers and wine), this malignancy threatens the republic.

America is at the precipice of an increasingly unstable democracy, wobbling like a drunken fairy on the head of a pin, while our enemies laugh and smile approvingly.

They never imagined it would be so easy.

“I’m not a racist, I’m an American!”


Is it possible to be a racist and not know it?

Nationalism, disguised as patriotism, can expose racist tendencies, and
that’s what we see in America today.

President Trump blends xenophobia and patriotism to tap into America’s darker side.

America has always had racists, but they lacked the organization and critical mass necessary to progress beyond their hateful selves.

But when the President of your country is himself a racist, that loose band of bigotry that runs through America suddenly has something (and someone) to rally around.

Trump has become the knot.

Under the guiding hand of President Trump, that once ineffectual and dangling lace of racism has been organized and knotted.

From the red MAGA hats to the tightly tied shoes, racism is ready to walk about America. And like its black-booted, brown-shirted Nazi cousin, Trump supporters are hatefully kicking and joyfully harming the most vulnerable among us.

It’s difficult to untie the lace on a moving boot, but that’s what we need to do if we’re going to get our country back.

The Orange Snollygoster


Worse than the Green Grinch

Who bamboozled Whoville

The Orange Snollygoster hates


Unlike the Green Grinch

Who sled in the snow

His ego is endless

and his heart doesn’t grow

Apathetic and petty

His mouth always shootin

A brain like spaghetti

A puppet of Putin

In need of a fixer

for his damn nasty deeds

He drinks an elixir

of hatred and greed

He lies so often

he broke the fact checker!

He’s a crook and a pig

In love with his Pecker

The Orange Snollygoster

lines his own pockets

He cuts down the trees

and fires off rockets

Peddling fear for political gain

The Orange Snollygoster

should be held in disdain

But for some, he’s savior

A call to the past

When white was a rite

In a system of caste

They latch on to fear

Like a babe to a breast

Strut in red hats

And pound on their chest

We need to resist

The Orange Snollygoster

A fraud and a cheat

A presidential impostor

We need to fight against

this historic disaster

Vote American values

and become our own master

Public access, private thoughts

I was walking down Tuckerman Avenue earlier today, when I came across this sign:


Public access to the shore is the way the public can legally reach and enjoy coastal areas and resources.

Feeling adventurous, I decided to take the path less traveled (at least for me).

On my trek from curbside Tuckerman Ave to the shoreline, I couldn’t help but think, this public access is not very accessible.  The path was overgrown, uneven and rocky in most parts, muddy and narrow in others. At one point, I had to crouch to make my way through a tunnel of shrubbery, the ground beneath my feet, a treacherous gully (can a gully be treacherous?).

As I made my way down the path, I imagined an animated discussion between Meriwether Lewis and William Clark, with an exasperated Clark shouting “Turn around Lew, she’s impassable” and “It’s risky business, this path to the shoreline, I fear we may lose some people!” – but I soldiered on.

If you ask me, accessible should mean accessible to a wide spectrum of people. If your  Nana can safely walk the path with a less than 50 % chance of fracturing a hip, then I say its accessible. I’m not sure the path from Tuckerman Ave to the shoreline passes the Nana test.


Once I made it to the shore, I headed in the direction of Sachuaest beach, hoping to make my way to Purgatory chasm and to the lower end of Tuckerman Ave — and eventually back to my car, which  I had parked at the local YMCA.

I’ve lived on Aquidneck Island for nearly half a century and this was the first time walking this particular shoreline – its really quite beautiful.

The rocky terrain was not easy and it was slippery in parts. I was reminded several times that mother nature doesn’t give a shit when you say “I got this” — having slipped twice on slimy seaweed-covered rocks.

I ran out of walkable terrain before I could reach Purgatory Chasm, so I had to double back. But all-in-all, it was a productive, mind-clearing walk, and a nice reminder of how fortunate I am to have ended up on Aquidneck Island.


Ambien, time, and the ferryboat captain


For more than a decade, I waged a nightly battle against sleeplessness.

Every night, shortly after shutting my eyes but before falling into unconsciousness – a movie-reel of the worst parts of my day and an unending series of previews for upcoming work-related deadlines would play inside my head. No matter what I did – or how hard I tried – I could not turn off the projector, and I could not fall asleep.

Before being introduced to Ambien, I devised strategies to combat my worry-borne sleeplessness. As soon as I flipped the bedroom light off and plopped my head onto my pillow, I would construct a quiet secluded place in my mind. For example, a cabin on the side of a mountain – surrounded by acres and acres of protective evergreens that shielded me from the buzzing reverberations of my day. I placed myself in this imaginary cabin, alone in a bed. Then, like a god, I painted a cold, crisp, blue-black sky and splashed it with sparkling stars – I envisioned myself enveloped in a cocoon of silence and serenity – sheltered safely from the remains of my day and the rumblings of my tomorrow.

This nightly exercise to keep anxiety at bay and worked for a while. But eventually, all my dreamscapes (be they cabins in the mountains or mud huts on a beach) would dissolve in a wave of worry- and I’d end up right where I was the night before – tossing and turning and unable to fall asleep.

I don’t t know what Ambien does physiologically – I have no idea how it acts on the brain – all I know is it works. I envision Ambien chemical agents starving the part of my brain that feeds on the memories of my day and the fear of my tomorrow – somehow disabling the mechanism that switches on that relentless movie-like projection of all things stressful.

It was 5 years of taking Ambien before I started to think hard about the fact that I needed this drug to trigger what was supposed to be a natural human function – the act of drifting off to sleep at the end of a busy day. I wondered what had changed in my life that made it impossible for me to fall asleep without chemical aid. I couldn’t pin it on one specific event. Perhaps it was the disconcerting realization (that simmered and hummed just under the surface of me), that more than half my life was over and that as a commodity, time was in short supply, while responsibilities and obligations were growing, creating a perfect recipe for worry.

After five years of being prescribed Ambien, I began to look at my habit as a character flaw. A drug addiction with none of the perks.

Last year our family took a trip to Maine to tour some colleges and universities. I left my Ambien home on that trip, and I’ve not taken it since.

I couldn’t tell you what changed in my life that allowed me to fall asleep without that little pill. My work is still stressful, and achieving a work-life balance is as impossible as ever – one son is heading to college in the Fall – and the other is close behind – so if anything, there’s has been an uptick in financial stress.

The only conclusion I can come to is that somewhere along the road, I arrived at perspective. All the things that kept me awake for years remain firmly ensconced in my life. Perhaps I understand futility – that all the worrying in the world will not shake these things loose – and that time remains a steadfast and unapologetic ferryboat captain – not caring one iota about what lies on the other shore or whether our arrival suits our schedule.

And so it is – and so I sleep.