writing – bendingtheneedle

My AI Music Project

For the last several weeks, I’ve been pushing my poems through the Suno AI music generator to see how they work as song lyrics.

I’m no Suno expert. In fact, I’m sure that I’m barely scratching the surface of its capabilities.

My process is simple (bordering on rudimentary).

I copy and paste a poem from my blog into the “Lyrics” window in the Suno song generator.
I enter a free-form description of the music style to use for the poem. For example: “Rap, Hip Hop, with Grunge Guitar licks, Female Vocals“.
I add a title for the song and click Create.

Suno generates two songs based on the criteria I entered. Next, I listen to the songs. I can tell right away whether I like what I hear, and often, I delete the song only after the first few bars. Other times, I find that some of my lyrics “work” nicely, while others don’t flow with the music and need tweaking.

I usually have the lyrics open in a text document as I listen to the song, pausing to rework my phrasing to better match the song’s cadence and rhythm. I add or delete verses, move chunks of text around, then have Suno create a new version of the song (with the same criteria). When I have the new songs with my lyrical updates, I go through the same listening and editing exercise.

It’s a very iterative process—and probably not the best way to use the tool. I haven’t managed to fiddle with the remixing and song editing features.

Poems don’t always have a verse-chorus structure commonly found in songs, so reworking these poems into lyrics often involves coming up with a memorable/catchy chorus. That has been the most fun and challenging part of this project.

Some poems that I envisioned as rap or hip-hop songs end up sounding better as rockabilly/country western songs. Switching the vocals from male to female can give a song an entirely new feel.

With Suno, I’ve repurposed my poems into thoughtful, memorable, and singable songs, even though I have no musical skills (I’m not sure if that is a good thing or a bad thing, but it’s definitely a thing). The following table summarizes my “collaborations” with Suno that are publicly available for listening.

I’d love to hear what folks think of these songs or of AI music in general. Post your comments here or on Suno. And please follow me on either platform.

Song	About the Lyrics
Baby Teeth and Bullets	These lyrics are from a poem I wrote years ago after a spate of school shootings. I really like how Suno split the lyrics between male and female vocalists without me specifically directing it. I always heard this poem musically in my head, even when I was writing it. And, I always envisioned a female vocalist singing the “I see angels” part – it was like Suno was reading my mind on how to turn this poem into a song. Favorite Verse: I’m the isolated Incel The bullet in the gun The angry white American Who’s blaming everyone I’m the cryptic manifesto The video online The AR-15 lover-boy Who grew-up Columbine
Pierced Hearts and Sorrow	I wrote the poem “Pierced Hearts and Sorrow” after the mass shooting in Uvalde, Texas. I also wrote a short story titled “That Final Hug” inspired by that horrible day. I’d gladly give up this type of inspiration if it meant fewer mass shootings where children are murdered in their classrooms. I hate that I feel compelled to write these types of poems. I think Suno captured the mood and tone of what I was trying to convey with my words. Favorite Lyric: We live in a land of pierced hearts and sorrow no shooting today? just wait till tomorrow In a fog of futility explicably numb we reach for our heartstrings but there’s nothing to strum
Hey Fascist, Catch	These lyrics are from a poem I wrote after the Charlie Kirk assassination. It’s about how dangerously divided America is and the potential for spiraling political violence that seems increasingly likely in the second Trump term. Favorite Verse: We ought to run from martyrdom not pin it to our chest not canonize the hateful guys who scream that they know best
Ashes to Ashes	I wrote a poem called “Ashes to Ashes” ten or more years ago. I fiddled with it and published it on my blog about 5 years ago. With some significant edits and a revamped chorus, here it is with Suno’s light touch. Favorite Verse: We stretch our souls tight on a drum We beat it bare till it goes numb We feel the eyes of everyone
Fury and Flow	Bored one afternoon, I challenged myself to write a poem about Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz. With Suno’s assistance, here is the musical version of that poem. Favorite Verse: Tracing the stitch on her pillow she imagines the blood in her veins she chases the witch up a willow till the beat of her heart starts to wane
The Glen	I wrote the poem this song is based on about a month or so ago. It takes a familiar place for Portsmouth, RI, residents (The Glen) and builds a song about the realities of relationships around that place. I trimmed the poem quite a bit for the song and changed some wording. In fact, the verse about chasing fireflies does not appear in the poem at all. That verse came to me as I was listening to the rhythm of the music, and it turned out to be my favorite lyric in the song. I chose a country-western style, which I think works nicely. Favorite Verse: The fireflies we used to chase went dark forever without a trace and we chose to leave love’s warm embrace
Get a Load of Elon	I wrote the poem “Get a Load of Elon” after seeing the sickening footage of that smiling dirtbag laughing it up and swinging a chainsaw around like some fake-ass efficiency hero. Fuck that guy and everything he represents. I think Suno captured the tone I was looking for on this one. Favorite Verse: He pulled into Washington Black MAGA cap on his head He spent a ton of cash put a felon in our bed
The Orange King	Donald Trump is my fat, ugly muse. There, I said it. Shame on everyone who voted for this criminal, and fuck all the cowards in Congress who are failing to stand up to this two-bit thug. And that’s all I have to say about this song. Favorite Lyric: My heart is full of pennies there’s no light inside my eyes there’s only room for Donny and all that I despise My mind is fully tainted I can’t connect the dots I’m more and more acquainted with Russian drones and bots
Pandora’s Vox Pandora’s Vox (Blues Version)	I wrote a poem in May of 2024 titled “Bonjour, Borg”, which was about the headlong way we are embracing AI, without fully understanding the consequences. I reworked that poem, added a chorus, and handed it to Suno. I include two versions (a power pop version and a blues version). Favorite Lyric: We’re messing with knowledge we don’t understand playing our cards without knowing our hand A sprint to the finish But where are we going? Dimmed and diminished We’ve no way of knowing
New Boy Paranormal	I wrote a poem in May of 2024 called “Boys in Distress”. I took bits and pieces from that poem and wrote the lyrics “New Boy Paranormal”. It’s about young adult men in America not being able to find their footing socially to the point where they retreat into a digital world of grievance, anger, and misogyny. This is an example of a previously written poem serving as a concept for new lyrics for a song. I wrote this specifically for Suno. The chorus: Fiber-optic geldings alone inside their heads they bathe in Incel chatrooms masturbate beside their beds they’re the new-boy paranormal walking ghosts and talking shit the no-screw-boy semi-formal stalking post sand keeping fit is new and does not appear in “Boys in Distress” – I came up with it on the fly and added it after listening to Suno’s first attempt at creating the song from my poem. This song went through several renditions before I settled on a “Surf rock-influenced” beat. I smiled broadly when I heard the finished product for the first time. Favorite Verse: Fiber-optic geldings alone inside their heads they bathe in Incel chatrooms masturbate beside their beds
The Danger’s in Pittsburgh	I wrote this poem about the climate crisis about 4 years ago. I kept the words pretty much the same for the musical version – just adding a second verse to the chorus. I can see Greta Thunberg belting this out on the bow of the Greenpeace Rainbow Warrior, with a hard-rocking band of Norwegian’s backing her. Greta, if you’re interested, text me. 😊 Favorite Verse: The dangers in Pittsburg the dangers in Norway wherever we live it’s outside our doorway The science is speaking the numbers aren’t lying The danger is global With temperatures rising
The Orange Morass	I came up with these lyrics based on a poem I wrote in 2017 called “Resist”, which was about pushing back against Donald Trump and his policies, which I saw as an existential threat to America’s democracy. I added several new verses for the song and reworked the verse that would become the chorus. I can see the Dixie Chicks or Dolly Parton belting this out. I’m not a big fan of country or rockabilly music, but I think that musical style works well with the words here. Favorite Verse: He belittles and threatens those who oppose him He stomps up and down screams America chose him!
Love Grenade	The phrase “love grenade” came into my head when I was noodling around a text file. I created this song entirely around that one phrase. No previous poem for this rocker – it just came to me very quickly, all of it from that one phrase “love grenade” – I like the vibe of the music that Suno generated – it’s got a female punk energy that’s fun to listen to (at least to me it is). Favorite Verse: You’re the drunken saint of unrestraint the banger at the ball a bourbon shot without a plot a fist inside the brawl
Oligarchic Kings	Suno and I, channeling our best Pat Benatar impression. I wrote the poem “Oligarchic Kings” recently and published it on my blog. I changed it quite a bit for the song version. Favorite Verse: Oligarchic Kings are here to clip your wings to wrap a rope around your throat to cast dark shadows over hope to crush your dreams of better days to dress your colors in shades of greys
Neo-Fascist-Oligarchic-Expialidocious	When I wrote this poem originally, I wrote it to the cadence of Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious from “Mary Poppins” and included it in my book “Imagine There’s No Donald” (available on Amazon😉 ). I asked Suno to create a power-pop song from the poem. It’s the only poem I used as is (not changing any of the words). It’s a campy/poppy version of a Disney classic. *Favorite Verse:* Neo-fascist-oligarchic-expialidocious Elon-Bezos-Zuckerberg are really quite atrocious We need to fight them in the streets and call them on their grossness Neo-fascist-oligarchic-expialidocious
Seeped in the 70s	When I was a youngster (I’m talking elementary school age), I remember “feeling” the news of the times – Watergate and Vietnam were in the news all the time. And though I was just a child and could not comprehend the realities swirling around me, I could sense a tension in the air – parents and other adults in heated conversations, the constant coverage of Watergate and Vietnam seeping into our subconscious among all the wonderful distractions of childhood at that time. That’s what inspired me to write the poem that this song’s about. Favorite Verse: Watergate was all around in our sight and in our sound on the news and in the paper the Viet Cong and foiled caper It lurked and hovered overhead Pages written and words were said it wormed its way into our head that innocence was finally dead
Too Small to See Too Small to See (Surf-Rock) version	I wrote a poem titled “Too Small to See” some 20 years ago after reading Robert Frost’s poem “Fire and Ice,” which is about “the destructive power of human emotions, suggesting the world could end through either fiery desire or icy hate, with both leading to the same annihilation, equating intense passion (fire) with destructive greed/lust and cold indifference (ice)” – I remember taking more literal slant on the subject of human mortality against the backdrop of an e-bola outbreak, which made me think that the way humanity ends is less likely to be from nuclear annihilation or climate-related disaster and more likely to be something “too small to see” – like a virus – When COVID came along it only reinforced my belief that our angel of death will be too small to see, killing us all, infectiously. I used to Suno to create two versions of this song with different styles (I’m not sure which one I like better). Favorite Verse: We’ll end with a whimper viral, tiny, and small from something we caught on our trip to the mall
Time Misspent in Wonderland	This song combines verses from two separate poems I wrote a few years back – one about regret and the other about a post-apocalyptic world. The result here is both bleak and sweet. Favorite Verse: Some people start to gather shake their fists and curse the sun while others mumble silently quoting Nietzsche and Carl Jung
Mangled by the Madness	This song is based on a poem I wrote, which was published in Beyond Words Literary Magazine a few years back. I did not change any words in the poem. I just added a chorus, and Suno did the rest. Favorite Verse: With a never-ending stipend of more than you can bear an abundant over-ripened softened fruit of deep despair

The Ballad of New Bobby and Joan

This is the ballad

of new Bobby and Joan

Fender guitar-lords

with truth microphones

a daredevil’s mission

to gather us all

to shake us, and wake us

to answer the call

The pressure’s been building

at a pace that is steady

our ship has been drifting

now the people are ready

New Bobby and Joan

are taking the stage

with fine-tuned stringed weapons

and words dipped in rage

Bob nods at the drummer

to get the show started

he counts the band in

to the dark and uncharted

They follow Bob’s lead

tag along for the ride

Joanie plays rhythm off to the side:

“Gather your courage

for a darkness awaits you

take aim at the hate

and the man who berates you

beware of cracked shadows

and words made of hay

of crowned jokers with pokers

who demand that you to pray

The pols and preachers

can’t show you the way

their pockets are lined

by the players that pay”

The crowd gives applause

and they nod in approval

they know what they need

it’s not change, but removal

Bob sets the tone

with a sneer and a growl

stalking the stage

like a tank on the prowl

Joanie steps forward

and smiles at Bobby

she’s not just his muse

and she’s more than a hobby

Bobby sees Joanie step up to the mic

she covers terrain, like a train on a spike

“We’re zip-tied and tongue tied

by Silicon Valley

Kidnapped by agents

who crouch in the alley

we live in a land

that is free of the brave

led by a felon

both cruel and depraved

The dream we living

turns silkweed to ashes

torched by the rich

and the market that crashes

Elon and Donny

are having a spat

while democracy dies

in a GPT chat“

Bobby steps forward

his guitar is smoking

there’s blood on the frets

of the Fender he’s choking

Joanie steps back

away from the light

Bobby’s a star

that eclipses the night

“The system ain’t broken

it works as intended

in the times we’re living

the truth isn’t rendered

when God taints your money

the peril is real

there’s no milk and honey

just poisonous zeal

where the rich just get richer

the poor get to bleed

just to get stitched up

and ground into seed

Joanie steps forward

and together they sing

the sad but true story

of men kissing the ring

“They tip toe through crypto

and heap praise on their king

in the land of bent knees

and the home of the bling

They take jets from Qutar

and cut aid to the poor

plan missions to Mars

and sell weapons for war

I don’t know about you,

but I can’t take anymore

It’s time to take names

and kick down the door

The last chord rings out

the cheers earn them their wage

they turn away from the mic

and they walk off the stage

This is the ballad

of new Bobby and Joan

Fender guitar-lords

with truth microphones

Blue Speck

Earth

the floating stone

we call our own

the blue spot argonaut

the snag in the wool of gravity’s pull

sustained by the grace

of the perfectly placed

Life

the spark in the dark

of the protozoa ark

biding its time

on destiny’s dime

stuck at the Stop and Go

of the never know

Unpropelled and single-celled

with no map or design

or intervention divine

mad as a hatter

and twice as sublime

The lone chromosome at

the slim-chance dance

of happenstance

For billions of years

we hobnobbed

in murky Jurassic tide pools

and heated ocean vents

above us

scalene shadows

of pterodactyl’s gliding

their featherless wings

warmed by a thuggish sun

the emergence beckoning

of our divergent reckoning

to that unguided moment

when we planted

a finned foot with no input

on the iffy shores of dinosaurs

tilting our thin-lipped

reptilian face towards

that acid-orange sky

Arrival survival

pockets of luck

worried, we scurried

from out of the muck

we crawled on our belly

for millions of years

dodging extinction

overcoming our fears

turning our backs

on oceans and seas

crisscrossing the plains

and carousing in trees

time shoved us along

without out any say

so, along we all went,

slowly making our way

Now look at us,

we’re a civilized mess

in the land of the more

we’ve never had less

Less kindness, compassion,

wisdom, and mirth

a desire for heaven

and disdain for the Earth

we guide planes into towers

and poison the air

we know what the fix is

but turn blindly to prayer

Danish Fatwas and papal decrees

we can’t reach the stars

when down on our knees

If we don’t break the chains

to the Gods we invented

if Batman’s and Banes

are the only incentive

then the fools will be ruled

by the vane and demented

Russian to Ride

Sing to the tune of “Ticket to Ride” by The Beatles

I think we’re gonna be had
I think it’s today, yeah
The guy that’s driving us mad
Ain’t going away

He’s got a Russian to ride
He’s got a Russian to ride
He’s got a Russian to ride
So, he don’t care

He said that tariffs will be
they’re bringing us down, yeah
And we will never be free
when he is around

He’s got a Russian to ride
He’s got a Russian to ride
He’s got a Russian to ride
so, he don’t care

We used to be a nation of laws
The constitution
used to be alright by me
But now we got this guy and his flaws
He wants us living
under an autocracy

I think we’re gonna be had
I think it’s today, yeah
The guy that’s driving us mad
Ain’t going away

He’s got a Russian to ride
He’s got a Russian to ride
He’s got a Russian to ride
so, he don’t care

We used to be a nation of laws
The constitution
used to do alright by me
But now we got this guy and his flaws
He wants us living
under an autocracy

This was the land of the free
’till he came around, yeah
And all the hypocrisy
it’s bringing me down, yeah

He’s got a Russian to ride
He’s got a Russian to ride
He’s got a Russian to ride
so, he don’t care

That Donny don’t care
That Donny don’t care
That Donny don’t care
That Daddy don’t care
That Donny don’t care

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.

Pop and the Christless Crucifix

I make my way through a dimly lit hall of walkers, wheelchairs, and medical carts to find him where I always find him – in a threadbare recliner, lightly coated with dried skin cells and broken hair follicles – hunched over the New York Times crossword in his flannel robe, pee-stained underwear, and perfectly fitted Red Sox cap – his lips moving silently to the clues:

“1 Across – Act of saving or being saved – 1 down – Environmentally friendly material.”

Dad never used to move his lips – they were always tightly creased, well-mannered, and coolly detached from the finely humming machine in his head as he attacked the puzzle on all fronts.

To Dad, the Times crossword was a trusted friend, a worthy opponent, and an intellectual fencing partner who, for years, prepared him mentally for the start of his day. It felt grossly unfair that Dad was aging so inelegantly while his opponent remained unscathed by time.

I stand invisible at the entrance of his room, just staring, not wanting to disrupt his endeavor.

When he finally looks up, he shoots me a broad smile and tips his cap in my direction before returning to the puzzle.

I enter the room, clear my throat, and get to the point of my visit.

“Dad, do you have a will?”

Without lifting his eyes or halting the motion of his pencil, he responds, “You can have it all. Just burn me down to a fine ash, then bury me in the desert. There – that’s my will. Cross it off your list.”

I sigh heavily.

With his head still bowed, he holds up his mechanical pencil and points it sharply in my direction before continuing.

“But not too deep. A few inches below the topsoil will do just fine. I want the rain to be able to get to me — muddy me up a bit.”

He lifts his head. A thin dusting of skin cells and hair follicles fall – it’s wintertime in Flannel Ville. He gives me a wink and a smile before returning to the puzzle.

“What about the family plot where Mom is?”

“What about it?”

He goes on, “In the words of the best Beatle by far, Let. It. Be. When she was alive, your mother nagged me about hogging the bed and disturbing her sleep. Trust me, she’d be fine with my desert plan.”

He returns to the puzzle, mumbling under his breath.

“6 across – Breaking down organic matter” – 2 Down – To accept without protest”

“Is any of this written down, Dad?”

He slams the folded Times on his lap, and an unwelcome whiff of urine fills my nostrils.

“Why do I need to write it down? I just told you with actual words from my mouth – Put me in the goddamn desert, a few inches deep – Easy-Peasy. You want to bring nurse Jackie in as a witness?”

There’s no Nurse Jackie, but Dad loved that show so much that he referred to all his nurses as Nurse Jackie—even the males.

“Sorry, Dad.”

He softens immediately and smiles.

“It’s OK. No worries from the weary.”

“The Times is kicking my ass today.” He tosses the newspaper onto his bed – a school of dad-DNA swims in a stream of sunlight above the bedding.

“How are things at home? How are Emma and the boys?”

“They’re good – I’ve been wanting to get the boys in for a visit – -they’ve been busy with basketball and homework.”

“Don’t worry about visits. Honestly, I don’t want them to see me like this.”

A silence settles in the room. I can hear the paint peeling and a clock ticking.

“Can you do me a favor?”

“Sure, Dad, whatever you need.”

He points to the wall behind his bed.

“Get rid of that goddamn cross. It’s from the poor soul who was here before me.”

I lift the lacquered black Christless cross from its nail. The unfaded paint beneath it leaves a crucifix shroud of Turin.

In a deadpan voice, Dad stares at the wall and quotes Luke 24:6-7, “He is not there; he has risen,” and smiles sarcastically.

“Thanks, son.”

I stand Pope-like in the middle of his room, holding the crucifix, “What should I do with this?”

“Burn and bury it in the desert – he chuckles and starts to cough – a mosh pit of Dad-dust bounces enthusiastically on his shuddering shoulders. I can almost hear Cobain screaming.

Suddenly, there’s a discharge of electricity around Dad’s recliner. I look up to an intense blueish-white light pushing through the crevices on his forehead—a halo of electrified dandruff swirls above his head. A look of relief falls upon him. He winks and says warmly, “I’m just saving you the effort. Goodbye, son.”

There’s a loud pop—like a fluorescent light bulb dropped from a great height—as Dad bursts into flames like a human Hindenburg. Thin flakes of ash float in the air. Their fiery orange edges burn bright for a few seconds before self-extinguishing into dissipating wisps of smoke and settling all around me.

I drop the crucifix in stunned silence.

A nurse (followed by an elderly gentleman with a Dustbuster) enters the room. The nurse tilts her head towards her left shoulder and speaks into a small black microphone, “Mr. Smith in 103 has transitioned.” She nods sharply to the gentleman, who retrieves the crucifix and vacuums up every remnant of my father. He even vacuums Dad from my shoulders and shoes. When he finishes, the nurse checks her watch and makes a notation on her clipboard.

She hands me a piece of paper. “Your father left us these coordinates. We’re sorry for your loss. Please collect your father’s remains at the nurse’s station.” She and the orderly exit the room along the same path they entered.

I unfold the paper. Scrawled in my dad’s handwriting are the coordinates 40°40′N 117°40′W.

After a few minutes, I head to the Nurse’s Station. Dad’s been packaged neatly in a small cardboard box with the Crestwood Nursing Home logo. Someone thoughtfully taped the crucifix onto it. I pull it off and toss it in the trash on my way out the door.

I place Dad in the glove compartment and drive west to the desert.

If you haven’t had a chance yet, please check out my first 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 elsewhere, 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-9/11 America.

The Jesus and Mary Stain

“I’ve washed this towel twice and still can’t remove the puke stain.”

His wife Mary stands at the top of the stairs, gently shaking the unfurled towel at her husband, who sits with his back to her, hunched over his “work-from-home desk,” even though he’s been out of work for 10 months.

The vet called it megaesophagus, a condition in which the esophagus is unable to move food into the stomach efficiently, causing their aging dog to vomit frequently. His wife displayed the artistic consequence of their dog’s medical condition for her husband to see.

Planting his bare feet on the protective matt under his office chair, he spins towards his wife, her pretty, puzzled face resting atop the puke-stained towel.

He studies the stain. “Let’s change Pepsi’s name to Pollock and sell her work online.” Then, in the next breath, he squints and quips, “Hold on a second… what the hell . . . I think I see Jesus’s face in that puke stain!”

“Ha-ha, very funny”, still, she turns the towel 180 degrees, tilts her head slightly, and studies the stain.

“Our lord savior, perpetually pictured in Pepsi’s puke! — or Pollock’s puke if we decide to move ahead with the name change,” her alliterative husband continues with a self-satisfying grin.

“This could be the financial windfall we’ve been waiting for!”

“It’s a laundry version of the miracle at Lourdes… the Tide Pod that Spied God!” He slips effortlessly into one of his riffs, wagging his finger enthusiastically above his head.

“I’ll call the Vatican and local paper; you work on logistics for backyard tours.”

She chuckles, turns on her heel, and heads down the stairs.

He’s unfazed by her absence.

Once he starts ranting, it’s got to run its course, “like diarrhea,” she would often say.

“We’ll need to erect a clothesline for the bath towel shroud of Jesus!”

“Maybe by the vegetable garden in the back, in front of the doubting toms and holy basil,” he shouts while spinning back to his work desk.

Halfway down the staircase, she responds sarcastically over her shoulder, “I’ll get on that right way,” tossing the rolled-up towel into the clothes hamper at the bottom of the stairs.

Fumble-Fucked and Broken

A loud quiet settles in the kitchen.

The morning sun finds its way through crowds of whispering pines and stoic oaks before crashing onto the skylight, splashing the inhabitants below in ghostly shadows of needles and oakleaf.

Peering over his coffee cup, he clears his throat – brushing aside the silence.

“We don’t fuck in the shower anymore.”

He takes a sip.

She raises an eyebrow, but not her eyes, working her butter knife methodically, like a skilled artisan, covering every nook and cranny of a slightly burnt English muffin.

A second passes.

“Fuck in the shower?” she scoffs incredulously, “Hell, I’d settle for a dry hump in the driveway.”

“Hmm. Interesting.” He takes another sip and studies his wife across the table. “Still pretty without makeup,” he thinks to himself.

Lifting her head, she takes a bite and shoots him a toothless smile, which he returns instantly (with a wink) before heading to the sink with his coffee cup.

“So,” he says, “What’s the plan today?”

She floats across the kitchen floor, meeting him at the sink, “I’m thinking of going to Mom’s to help in the yard.”

“After that, I’m free as a bird.”

“Maybe we can shower then?”

Standing directly behind him, she places her hand lightly on his lower back and slides her plate onto the kitchen counter before walking away.

He marvels at how she’s kept her figure. With his hand on his belly, he begins to second-guess his shower comment.

It’s their anniversary.

“By the way,” she says over her shoulder. “We’ve only done that like twice – maybe 3 times – in 30 years of marriage.”

He detects a hint of disappointment, and that famous quote from Cool Hand Luke, “What we’ve got here is failure to communicate,” plays on a loop in his head.

He wonders momentarily how many shower opportunities he’s missed out on.

The space between them has grown exponentially since the kids left, and lately, he wonders if it’s even navigable.

The kids were a bridge.

Now, the person he fell in love with is this spotty, blurry-edged figure on a distant shore, and he’s pretty sure that’s how he appears to her as well — spotty and distant, lost in his coffee, fantasizing about fucking in the shower.

In a strained and slightly desperate tone he pushes his words towards her “Strange how time clouds our perception of reality,” as if words can fix what feels irrevocably broken.

Soul Vessels and Tailpipes

“Can you and the young lady step out of the car, please?”

The voice behind the mirrored shades was professional and pleasant, but the driver was reluctant to comply. The look of panic in his daughter’s eyes only hardened his hesitancy.

“I’m sorry, officer. Was I speeding?” the driver asks calmly, offering the officer his license and registration.

“Sir, I received a tip about your passenger’s medical condition. I need you and the young lady to exit the car NOW.”

“Daddy, please, don’t go,” the daughter implores her father, gripping her seatbelt tightly with both hands. Her knuckles are white, and her body visibly trembles.

“It’s OK, honey – just stay put.”

“Listen, officer. This girl is my daughter. She’s 13 years old. I’m her parent and legal guardian, and she is NOT getting out of this car.”

The officer takes a step back, draws his weapon, and points it at the father.

There’s a jarring change in tone as the officer’s jagged words erupt coarsely from his gravel-lined throat:

“Sir, this is your last warning—step out of the car NOW.”

“Jesus fucking Christ – what’s wrong with you?” the flinching father screams towards the officer, angrily throwing his license and registration out of the car window.

Worried and panicked, he turns to his daughter, who cannot speak – “Honey, you stay buckled – I’m going to talk with the officer.”

The father exits the car slowly – putting his hands above his head to show the officer he’s unarmed. The officer instructs him to turn and face the vehicle – before doing so, the father glances at the badge on the officer’s uniform – noticing the etching of four white crosses above and below the shield – the officer holsters his weapon, grabs the father by the back of the collar, and slams him onto the hood of the car before violently slapping handcuffs on him.

The father sees the horrified look on his daughter’s face; she wretches and vomits.

He is helpless.

“She was raped,” he growls at the officer who stands him up against the side of the car – “Six weeks ago, my baby girl was raped.”

“Not by the child in her womb,” the officer sneers callously.

“She’s a soul vessel now. Transporting her across state lines for reproductive care (the officer uses air quotes) is a crime.”

“You’re under arrest.”

Like a black and poisoned weed, the phrase “soul vessel” takes root in the father’s head. He had heard rumors about a network of like-minded Christian police officers across the United States working to enforce “God’s law,” especially as it pertained to unplanned pregnancies.

When he and his daughter worked out their visit to planned parenthood, they consciously mapped a backroads route, steering clear of major highways. “It’ll be safer this way,” he remembers assuring his daughter, whose biggest concern six weeks ago was getting the right cleats for soccer.

The officer places the defeated father in the back of the police cruiser and walks back to the car where the girl sits, still clutching her seatbelt. He opens the passenger door, reaches over her, and unbuckles the seatbelt, coldly instructing her to “exit the vehicle.”

The girl, expressionless, complies. When she gets out, he pushes her towards the back of the car, turns her harshly towards the trunk, and instructs her to place her hands on the vehicle.

The officer glances back at the father, wanting him to witness what comes next.

He takes out his Billy Club and tells the girl to spread her legs; while looking back towards her father, he gently taps the insides of her thighs, moving the club up towards her vagina. He leans into her, and she can feel the warmth of his breath on her neck. Through the stale scent of chewing tobacco and cheap cologne – he whispers, “We’ve got to keep that bun baking, little girl – that’s all that matters now.” – she turns her head in disgust.

She sees her father’s shadowy figure behind the cruiser’s tinted glass and imagines the steel edge of his restraints cutting into his wrists as he explodes in rage at the assault taking place before him. She looks past her father and notices the cruiser’s engine is still running. The tailpipe exhaust relentlessly pushes down on a patch of withering daisies—they bend and twist, but there’s no escape.

As the officer leans away to put the cuffs on the girl, she falls to the ground. He steps aside and smirks with disdain, staring momentarily at her before extending his hand. She looks up at him and sees her broken and crumpled self in the reflection of his sunglasses. She offers up her hand, her middle finger extended. The officer grabs her wrist and pulls her to her feet.

As she rises, she notices the gun in his holster, unsecured—she grabs it and is surprised at how easily it comes out. She takes one step back, points the gun at the officer, and (without hesitation) pulls the trigger.

The bullet shatters his sunglasses and tears through his left eye. Blood, shards of bone, and brain matter explode from the back of the officer’s head, spraying the soft beige dirt on the side of the road in red and pink.

The officer’s knees buckle, and he falls in a heap. The girl’s arm goes limp, and the gun falls loosely from her hand.

She walks purposefully and in silence towards the police cruiser. She passes by her father, who sits stunned, mouth agape, in the back seat—she never even glances at him. At the rear of the car, she squats down, gently pulls the daisies out of the ground, and holds them to her chest. She stands up, walks down an embankment on the side of the road to a running brook, places the flowers in the water, and watches them float away.

She retrieves the handcuff keys from the dead officer and walks to the cruiser to free her father. He hugs her immediately, but she’s unable to hug him back. Her arms hang heavy and motionless from her shoulders like slats of wood.

After a minute, she looks at him and says, “Take me away from here – there’s nothing here for me anymore. – there’s nothing.”

The Process

He sits in solitude with his paragraph

an incongruent splash

of black letters on a white screen

before cracking the silence

with a rhetorical “Shal we?”

Like a maniacal blackjack dealer

he shuffles the words

whispering them to himself

listening to their sound

until they click in perfect cadence

and a rolling rhythm is formed

where words formerly choppy

now sway in unison

like obedient bulbs

strung elegantly

on an idea wire

“Done” he says to himself.

“We’re done.”