books – bendingtheneedle

New Singles from Sapient Rain Coming to Streaming Services

I throw up a little in my mouth every time I watch Pete Hegseth and Donald “Biff Tannen” Trump pumping their fists and boasting (like teenage boys bathed in testosterone) about America’s war with Iran.

I’m infuriated by a Congress of mostly male members sitting on their hands and refusing to hold the Trump administration accountable for continually violating the Constitution and throwing our country and the world into chaos.

More than any time in our history, we need strong and ethical women leaders in government, industry, and education to help turn the tables on the toxic masculinity hurtling humanity towards a dark void of unending violence and oppression.

For the last several months, I’ve been using Suno, an AI Music Engine, to showcase lyrics and poems I’ve written and published to my personal blog, Bending the Needle – Truth Hurts.

I’m releasing several singles next week on Spotify, iTunes, and YouTube Music. The singles share a theme of women struggling against the unrelenting pressure of a patriarchal society.

I’m including public links to these new songs on Suno as a preview of their upcoming releases on streaming services.

The Queen’s Gambit

I wrote the lyrics to this song after re-watching “The Queen’s Gambit”, a limited series on Netflix about a troubled female chess prodigy fighting her way to the pinnacle of a profession dominated by men – finding redemption on sixty-four squares of sanctuary.

The Queens Gambit on Suno.

Trapped Inside the Bell Jar

Trapped Inside the Bell Jar is about the poet Sylvia Plath’s struggle with mental illness, patriarchy, and a cheating husband, and how she used emotional pain and public shame to fuel a posthumous rise to literary greatness.

Trapped Inside the Bell Jar on Suno.

New Bobby and Joan (Rap Version)

Originally, I used Suno to select a New Wave musical framework to showcase my poem, The Ballad of New Bobby and Joan.

This rap version tells the story of two fed-up musicians at the top of their game, protesting the greed, authoritarianism, and corruption in American politics today.

New Bobby and Joan (Rap Version) on Suno.

A Message from Michelle

A Message from Michelle is both a tribute and a plea to the former first lady to continue to speak out strongly against the hateful and dangerously authoritarian Trump regime. I know it’s a lot to ask of Michelle Obama, who was crystal clear on what America would become under a Trump presidency.

A Message from Michelle on Suno.

Fury and Flow

Fury and Flow is a fun take on the adventures of Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz as she tries to overcome the obstacles that keep her from getting back to her Kansas Kin.

Fury and Flow on Suno

If you haven’t had a chance yet, please check out my book, My Paper, My Words: Rantings from a Progressive Boomer and Peeved Parent, from Amazon. And if you feel moved to write a review of the book, on Amazon, or anywhere else, I’d be honored.

My Paper, My Words is a collection of essays, stories, and poems that reflect the challenges of a middle-class husband and father trying to navigate a rapidly changing political, religious, and technological landscape of post-911 America.

Ode to Sylvia Plath

For me, the biggest perk of retirement by far is time. Time to spend as you see fit, doling it out for reading, learning, creating, or just being available to my kids.

Lately, I’ve been reading essays and biographical pieces about Sylvia Plath, the brilliant and emotionally troubled American poet and author who took her own life in February of 1963.

Plath’s confessional poetry and prose unpacked gender constraints, patriarchy, and mental health with a raw and emotional acuity that made her a feminist icon. Her passionate and tumultuous marriage and very public divorce from poet Ted Hughes was emotionally distressful and humiliating, but also a catalyst for the most creative period of Plath’s career as a writer.

I haven’t read Plath’s most seminal works, “The Bell Jar” and “Ariel”, but with retirement, I have the opportunity to do so.

I wrote the following poem about Sylvia Plath and used the AI music engine Suno to put my words to song. Here is the link to the song, Trapped Inside the Bell Jar.

Trapped Inside the Bell Jar

Sylvie and Ted lie in a bed
of false hope and betrayal
in poems and prose
where no one knows
veracity from portrayal

A suffocating madness
let’s the dullness settle in
a manic wit, the perfect fit
of grit inside her grin

Trapped inside the Bell Jar
skinned knees pulled to her chest
Cracked, she cried and fell far
too far to be addressed

Her pain becomes obsession
A catalyst of sorts
Words explode
in expressions
of poisonous retorts

She digs her knife
into the headboard
etching hearts into the wood
shavings fall
like paper dolls
of misspent womanhood

Trapped inside the Bell Jar
skinned knees pulled to her chest
Cracked, she cried and fell far
Too far to be addressed

With tape and wet tea towels
sealing windows and locked doors
the sad girl that things happen to
dies on the kitchen floor

“Please call Doctor Horder “
Her note said nothing more
Nick and Frieda safe and sound
Behind their bedroom door

Trapped inside the Bell Jar
skinned knees pulled to her chest
Cracked, she cried and fell far
Too far to be addressed

Getting Creative with The Queen’s Gambit on a Snowy Afternoon

I watched the Netflix series “The Queen’s Gambit” several years ago, and I enjoyed it thoroughly.

On a cold and sleety yesterday, I sat with my Rover client Gracie (a sweet Golden Retriever Border Collie mix) and binge-watched the red-headed Kentucky orphan Beth Harmon’s rise from the dreary corridors of the Methuen Home for Girls to the chandelier-lit halls of a grand, prestigious Soviet-era building to defeat Russian Chess Master and nemesis, Vasily Borgov.

If you haven’t seen “The Queen’s Gambit“, I can’t recommend it enough.

Anyway, I woke up this morning inspired by the series and composed a poem about Beth Harmon, then set the words to music using the AI Music Engine Suno.

I used Suno to create two versions, a Kentucky Bluegrass version (Beth Harmon hails from Kentucky) and a more modern version that I heard in my head.

The Queen’s Gambit Lyrics

Beltik’s sorrow
can’t be hidden
as Harmon says
You’re done
Mister Shaibel
Gave Beth his bible
It became
her knife and gun

She sees the game
inside her head
Queens dance
upon the ceiling
On greens and whites
she dreams in bed
her painted walls
are peeling

Harmon toys
with men and boys
dazed by what they see
intellect cuts
through the noise
and brings them
to their knees

With Gibson sips
upon her lips
her Librium emerges
breaks through the clouds
and Russian crowds
from Borgov she diverges

Sixty-four squares
of sanctuary
where logic seeks control
kings and knights
queens and pawns
white ivory, black coal

Harmon toys
with men and boys
dazed by what they see
intellect cuts
through the noise
and brings them
to their knees

She sees the game
inside her head
Queens dance
upon the ceiling
On greens and whites
she dreams in bed
her painted walls
are peeling

Harmon knows
the space that grows
separates her
from her rivals
in ragged clothes
the orphaned girl
across from Mr. Shaibel

Coffee, Scones, and Blue Blazer Bones

Most of us don’t get to choose the last thing we hear before dying. The grim reaper doesn’t give a shit about playlists or our affinity for the sound of waves crashing or birds singing.

The man in the blue blazer’s final breath came at 12:46 PM to the shitty sounds of stylized Jazz, and a Bluetooth-wearing mortgage lender yelling, “It’s 2008 all over again!”

With his elbows on the table and bowed head, he looked like any other Barnes and Noble Cafe customer – bewitched by books and coffee. Sure, his posture might have seemed “a little off” to the passersby, but not enough to alert the reference librarian or the pimply-faced adolescent behind the Cafe’s counter.

People don’t care about one another the way they used to. Most of us drift through our day in cell phone-induced trances, grossly unobservant of the world 3 feet beyond the nose on our faces. And so, the man in the blue blazer sat dead and unbothered for nearly eight hours (and one shift change) until a nudge from the Cafe’s manager caused him to fall and strike his head with a sickening biological splat, like a dropped bowling ball wrapped in salami.

Bill and Susie are wiping down the espresso machine when their pale, shell-shocked manager shuffles towards them.

“What’s up, boss? Are you OK?”

The question startles the manager from his stupor. He looks at Bill and says flatly, “He’s dead.”

“Who’s dead?” Bill and Susie chime in unison, causing Susie to laugh and blurt out, “Jinx on you!” while pointing and smiling at Bill demurely, “You owe me a coke, dude!” – Susie’s been crushing on Bill for months and can’t figure out why he hasn’t picked up on her willingness.

Their manager raises his arm slowly and points towards the Cafe’s seating area. Bill and Susie look wide-eyed at one another and dash from behind the counter. Susie sees the man lying on his back, turns immediately on her heel, and heads towards the front of the store, yelling, “Call 911, call 911!”

“Jesus Christ, boss, what happened?”

The manager’s voice is unsure and thready, “I told him we were closing, and that he needed to complete any purchases. When he didn’t respond, I touched him on the shoulder, and he fell.” His voice rattles with panic, “He must have been dead already; I mean, he never even tried to break his fall.”

The manager falls quiet before whispering, “His lips are so blue.” Bill looks at the lifeless body in front of them, turns toward his boss, and acknowledges softly, “So fucking blue.”

“You know, he looks familiar, boss. Not as a customer, but from out there,” Bill nods over his shoulder towards the storefront windows and the world beyond. He brushes by his manager and kneels next to the body. “He’s dead for sure,” and then shockingly reaches into the man’s blazer.

The manager directs a rage-filled whisper at Bill, “What the fuck are you doing? Are you crazy? The police are on their way!”

“I know – I just want to check his driver’s license. I know this guy, boss.”

“Who gives a fuck if you know him? Leave him alone! Wait for the police, for Christ’s sake.”

The manager’s head is on a swivel, his darting eyes surveying the store for straggling customers and police. The last thing he needs is for his manager to hear about a Barnes and Noble employee mugging a dead man.

Bill opens the wallet. A folded piece of paper falls out. Without thinking, he puts it in his pocket and rummages for the dead man’s driver’s license.

Susie comes running from the front of the store, out of breath, “Betty called 911. Bill, what are you doing?”

Bill holds up the license and smiles, “Ted Diamond. 22 Fairview Lane,” before slipping it back into the card slot and sliding the wallet into the breast pocket of the blazer.

A police cruiser glides quietly into the nearly empty parking lot, splashing the storefront in blue and red lights. Car doors slam, and a few seconds later, the reference librarian directs two officers toward the Cafe.

As the officer approaches, Bill looks at Susie and shoves his hands into his pockets nervously, only to discover the piece of paper that fell from the wallet. He looks up and realizes there’s no time to put it back. His fingers draw the paper into his sweaty palm, and he squeezes tightly, digging his fingernails into it.

“I’m Officer Jacobson, and this is Officer Tyler.” Can someone tell me what happened? Bill’s boss offers an outstretched hand to the officer, “Hi, I’m Jack Bellinger, the manager. I found the gentleman about 15 minutes ago. He was sitting at a table, and I nudged him when he didn’t respond to me — then he fell off his chair. I’m pretty sure he’s dead.”

There’s a commotion at the front of the store as the EMTs come rushing in. They begin chest compressions and CPR immediately, checking intermittently for breathing and a pulse. It’s not long before futility settles heavily on their shoulders.

The Cafe manager is off to the side, nodding and speaking with the officers in hushed tones. The EMTs wheel the man in the blue blazer slowly out the front of the store with no sense of urgency. His story ends officially in the parking lot of Barnes and Noble.

Bill pulls the folded and crumpled paper from his pocket.

“What’s that?” Susie whispers.

“A note. It fell out of the dead guy’s wallet when I was looking for his license – I didn’t have time to put it back.” A look of guilt and shame fell over Bill’s face.

“What’s in it?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t read it.”

Susie puts her arm around Bill’s waist and slow-walks him to the Cafe’s kitchen. Bill brushes aside poppy seeds and crumbs from the counter, unfolds the paper, and smooths it out with both hands.

Dear Mary,

I know what you’re doing and who you’re doing it with.

A barista?

How pathetically proletarian.

It’s over. We’re done. You’re DONE!

Ted

Susie steps back slowly from the counter and stares at the back of Bill’s head, his damp, thick curls resting on his shoulders. She watches him slowly take a cigarette lighter from his pocket. In a dream-like sequence, he walks to the sink, holds the note by the corner, and lights it on fire. Then he pulls a sandwich bag of little white pills from his other pocket, empties the bag into the sink, and washes them down the drain.