April 22: "November Morning," Diane Glancy, "April Afternoon"

Billy Collins admires ducks . . .

November Morning

by:  Billy Collins

My appearance on the shore

has surprised this pair of wood ducks--

the wild-haired male, the smooth-headed hen.

They've left the cover of reeds

to begin their day together,

and I have an afternoon flight to Milwaukee.

It has been a day seeped in poetry.  The Headline Poet of the Great Lakes Poetry Festival, Diane Glancy, read this evening at the library, and she was (no surprise) amazing.

Prior to the reading, I gave Diane a tour of the library and then took her to dinner with a group of poet friends.  Lively conversation.  Mushroom risotto.  Lots of laughter.

Tomorrow morning, like Billy Collins, Diane has a flight home (not to Milwaukee), and the rest of us wood ducks will go about our day together in the reeds of life.

Saint Marty is still a little drunk . . . on words.

April Afternoon

by:  Martin Achatz

The poet stands on the roof,

spreads her arms

as if to take flight,

calls out, "I'm never leaving!"

just as she blossoms

feathers and wings

off into the empty 

page of the day.

April 21: "Dogma," State of the World, "Catechism"

Billy Collins takes us to church . . .

Dogma

by:  Billy Collins

I might be an atheist

were it not

for all the tall angels

and the pudgy cherubs 

in the silvery clouds

presiding over all those miracles.

This is a good poem for a Sunday.

Looking at the state of the world at the moment (wars and climate change and politicians hawking Bibles), it's hard not to question the existence of an Almighty.  How can a Higher Power let all this shit happen?

Gone are the days when angels would sometimes knock on your front door and ask for some hospitality (dinner and a warm bed).  Lepers aren't walking down streets, ringing bells and shouting "Unclean!  Unclean!"  The blind don't see, and the lame don't walk.  Miracles just don't happen with great frequency in this day and age.  Or do they?

Here's the thing--and I think this is the point Billy Collins is making with today's poem--angels and miracles are all around us.  Every day.  That hasn't changed since baby Moses went for his little boat ride in the bulrushes.  Modern people have just become immune to the holy weird of the world.  For example, I saw a wild turkey on the side of the road today, and I ate a lavender vanilla bean gelato for lunch.  Tonight, I picked up a poet at the airport and drove her to her hotel.  This poet has won, among other accolades, the American Book Award.  Miracle upon miracle upon miracle.

I've had angels in my life, as well.  These angels have gone out of their ways to help me at various times when I've felt irredeemable.  My friend, Helen, was one of those angels.  She believed in the inherent goodness of everyone she met.  Every day was an adventure in wonder for her, from the deer feeding in her backyard to the raspberries growing along the side of a path.  She lived in the realm of the earthly sacred.  And Helen believed in me.

So, Saint Marty agrees with Billy Collins:  angels and cherubs and miracles, oh my!

Catechism

by:  Martin Achatz

I learned to recite

the "Our Father" in Latin

when I was a kid,

so I speak guilt

in two languages.

April 20: "Quatrain," Music, "Tacet"

Billy Collins sees music everywhere . . . 

Quatrain

by:  Billy Collins

When a woman

in a low-cut blouse

walked by,

the grocer in the doorway

raised his eyebrows

revealing the four lines in his forehead.

Music has always been a big part of my life.  I remember my mom playing Doris Day as she cooked in the kitchen.  Falling asleep to soundtracks of South Pacific and Oklahoma.  Cruising with my brother in his van, listening to "Bungle in the Jungle."  Church music.  Disco.  Country.  Broadway.  Classical.  Punk.  Pop.  Acid.  I listened to them all.  Perhaps that's why poetry seems like breath to me.

It has been a quiet day.  The most excitement I had was walking to church to play the pipe organ for Mass.  I took my puppy for a few walks, too.  And, for some reason, I thought about my sister, Rose, a lot.

Most of my faithful disciples know Rose had Down syndrome.  And she loved music, too.  She couldn't really carry a tune, but she could move and dance like Chita Rivera.  All day long, I've been hearing Rose's voice and laugh.  This morning, when I took my dog for her first spin around the backyard, the lilac bushes along the property line were full of birds singing in the bright sunshine.  That made me think of Rose, as well.

She's been gone for a couple years now, but she's still present somehow, like an old tune that reminds me the world can be really beautiful.

Saint Marty misses his sister's offkey voice.

Tacet

by:  Martin Achatz

Birds in the lilac bushes

this morning reminded me

of my sister's eyes right

before she died:  

               

               as if she

was surprised by her silent

heart and lungs, her spirit

still perched for a few seconds

in the branches of her body

before taking flight.

April 19: "Yamaha," Music Nights, "Church Music"

Billy Collins plays some music  . . 

Yamaha

by:  Billy Collins

I gun my baby grand

along blacktop roads,

and I play Claire de Lune

in my helmet and boots.

Friday nights are music nights for me.

I play at two and three different churches every weekend, so, after dinner on Fridays, I grab my bag of music and head out the door.  Two or three hours later, I'm back home after practicing the hymns and preludes and postludes.

When I was taking piano lessons as a kid, I never thought I'd actually make any money playing the keyboard.  Now, I'm a fulltime accompanist at one Lutheran church, part-time accompanist at another Lutheran church, and the fulltime Saturday evening accompanist at a Catholic church.  Plus, a lot of other churches of various denominations have my name on their lists of in-case-of-musical-emergency-break-glass organists.

Saint Marty's piano lessons have paid off.

Church Music

by:  Martin Achatz

I once played

"Amazing Grace"

with a boogie

bassline 

during communion,

God buying 

a round of drinks

for everyone

in the joint.

April 18: "Three for a Quarter," Johnny Cash, "Old Country Music"

Billy Collins shows his age . . . 

Three for a Quarter

by:  Billy Collins

I was forced to listen to a lot of country music when I was a kid.  Every morning, while I ate breakfast, I had to endure the local country station on the radio.  It was the only thing my dad listened to.

So, I got very familiar with all the old country tunes that only cost a nickel to play on a jukebox.  Hank Williams.  Willie Nelson.  Johnny Cash.  Loretta Lynn.

Perhaps that ages me, too, just like Collins.  All the 1980s songs that define my high school days are now considered vintage or golden oldies.

Does that make Saint Marty a classic?

Old Country Music

by:  Martin Achatz

Every morning,

WJPD on the radio

with my Lucky Charms.

Then I hopped a train

to school, hunted down

the dirty S.O.B.

who failed me in Trig,

and shot his dog.

April 17: "Olden Plea," Bad Attitudes, "Emotional Eating"

Billy Collins makes a request . . . 

Olden Plea

by:  Billy Collins

Could we skip the hanging

and the quartering

and just do some drawings--

maybe of a pillory, an urchin, or a herring?

Gonna be a short one tonight, disciples.  It's been a long day dealing with lots of bad attitudes (including my own).  I'm ready for bed.

This whole week has been an exercise in simply treading water, and today was no different.  I made it to bedtime without hanging or quartering anybody.

Saint Marty counts that as a victory.

Emotional Eating

by:  Martin Achatz

I ate a handful

of anger and grief

this afternoon.

It tasted a lot

like Cheetos and M&Ms.

April 16: "4'33" by John Cage," Silence, "Pin Drop"

Billy Collins indulges in some quiet jazz . . .

4'33" by John Cage

by:  Billy Collins

As I listened,

the scales

fell from my eyes.

If you're not familiar with 4'33" by John Cage, this poem simply won't work for you.  Watch a video, and you will see someone sitting at a piano for four minutes and thirty-three seconds playing . . . absolutely nothing.  There's music sitting in front of the performer, and, every once in a while, the pianist may turn the page or lift a hand to the keyboard, but no sound is made.  Not a note.

If you've ever sat in forced silence, you know it isn't easy.  There's a human impulse to fill moments of prolonged nothing.  Almost five minutes of noiselessness is tantamount to waterboarding for some individuals.

Quiet doesn't bother me, but I'm a poet.  I need absence (of sound and people and distraction) to get words down on paper.

So, John Cage is right up Saint Marty's alley.

Pin Drop

by:  Martin Achatz

If you can

hear a pin drop,

pick up the bastard

before I step on it.

April 15: "Physical," Geese, "Morning Geese"

Billy Collins' heart . . .

Physical

by:  Billy Collins

The nurse quipped

my pulse was so slow

she could take it with a sundial.

In a garden,

she watches the shadow move

while I sit there, ticking away.

It's going to be a short post tonight, disciples.  It's been a long day, and I'm tired.  I can feel my heart slowing down, my mind getting ready to reboot.

This morning, when I took my puppy out for her morning stroll around the backyard, we were surrounded by the cries of geese.  It sounded like an Independence Day parade of honks and barks and horns.

Above us, the sky was overflowing with geese, returning from their winter retreats, I imagine.  It was kind of miraculous to witness.  It lasted almost five minutes--flock after flock forming and reforming into V's, winging across the heavens.

It made Saint Marty's heart beat a little faster.

Goose Morning

by:  Martin Achatz

So many arrows

of Canadians

in the dawn sky,

calling out,

Spring, eh!  Spring, eh!

April 14: "Angelus," Letter Writing, "Birthday Card"

Billy Collins gets some mail . . . 

Angelus

by:  Billy Collins

Church bells

from across the water--

a breeze blows

the letter I was reading

into the lake.

People don't write letters anymore.  They email.  Text.  Send snaps.  Communication these days is instantaneous.  Unless you're standing on the summit of Mount Everest or diving to the bottom of the Mariana Trench, you can get in touch with practically anybody in the time it takes to sneeze.

I come from a letter-writing generation.  Maybe the last letter-writing generation.  If I went on vacation, I sent home postcards.  When my girlfriend (now wife) and I were separated while I was in grad school in Kalamazoo, I wrote long letters to her every day.  Sad letters.  Sexy letters.  Joyful letters.  Angry letters.  It was how I kept myself connected with my distant love.

We've lost something in this social media age.  It takes me maybe 30 seconds to send a text ("Can you bring my car keys with you when you come to the church?").  It takes even less time to answer a text ("K" or "Yes" or a thumbs up emoji).  Writing a letter takes time and thought and a more than a little creativity.  It also takes a person who can read and write cursive (a rarer and rarer skill these days).

Perhaps I'm old fashioned.  Maybe I'm a Luddite.  But I get more excited about receiving a handwritten letter or card than any email or text  Electronic communications are transitory.  Here today, deleted tomorrow  Yesterday, I took a book off my shelf and opened it up.  Inside, I found a birthday card from a good friend who has been dead close to ten years.

As I read the words he'd scribbled inside the card in his tall, thin script, it was like he was right there with me.  I could actually hear his laugh followed by the watery intake of breath that always followed it.

That's not something you can get from an antiseptic, autocorrected electronic message.  It's something

living.  Breathing.  Like a poem.

And Saint Marty will take a poem over a text any day.

Birthday Card

by:  Martin Achatz

from a dead friend, 

found in the pages

of Leaves of Grass,

mixing with

the beer and peanuts

of Whitman's breath.

April 13: "A Small Hotel," My Daughter, "Buying a Pizza"

Billy Collins starts a fire . . .

A Small Hotel

by:  Billy Collins

When a match touched

the edge of the page,

my poem filled with smoke,

then a few words

were seen to stumble out

in nothing but their nightgowns

with no idea which way to run.

Sitting here tonight on my couch, listening to a crow scratch at the stars with its caws.  My daughter just left a little while ago.  She came over to help me set up a new Fire TV Stick and to do her laundry.

It reminded me how much I miss having her living at home.  Miss her humor and affections.  How she can make her 15-year-old brother smile and shine like a brand new penny.  How she will sometimes put her head on my shoulder when she's sitting next to me.

Saint Marty doesn't need to set a page on fire to find a poem.

Buying a Pizza

by:  Martin Achatz

She prefers stuffed crust

topped with chicken.

Two or three pieces

with leftovers for breakfast.

Poetry is a cheap date.

April 12: "New York Directions," Getting Lost, "How to Get Home"

Billy Collins in the Big Apple . . .

New York Directions

by:  Billy Collins

It's down

in the Village

between

Bleek

and Bleekest.

In the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, directions to any place usually involve turning at a white pine down a dirt road until you see a wooden sign that has just a family name on it--"Larson" or "Rintimaki" or "Johnson."

Me?  I can get lost walking around the block.  So don't tell me to go east on Magnetic Street.  That just doesn't work for me.  I am a traveler of habit.  I follow the same route every time, never deviating, and it takes me five or six trips before I commit the directions to memory.

I hate getting lost.  Always have.  Since childhood, it's been one of my biggest fears.  I like knowing where I am and where I'm going all the time.  No adventures for me.

Here are some directions from Saint Marty . . . 

How to Get Home

by:  Martin Achatz

Click your heels

together three times

and repeat after me:

Call me a cab,

call me a cab.

April 11: "Hotel Room," Poetic Response, "Lunar Eclipse in a Hotel Room"

Billy Collins travels . . . 

Hotel Room

by:  Billy Collins

Unlike

the breakfast menu,

I had no desire 

to be hung

outside

before 2 a.m.

Sometimes, I have a lot to say about Collins' poems.  Sometimes, I have just a little.

Saint Marty's poetic response for today . . . 

Lunar Eclipse in a Hotel Room

by:  Martin Achatz

2 a.m.

I look out

my window

watch the moon

skinny dip

in the deep

lake of night.

April 10: "ENG 243: The History of Egotism," Accomplished People, Nobel Prize in Literature

Billy Collins gives a lesson on humility . . . 

ENG 243:  The History of Egotism

by:  Billy Colins

You will notice, class,

that Wordsworth did not write

"Edward, the butcher's son,

wandered lonely as a cloud."

I'm not a big fan of ego.  In fact, I find any person who suffers from an acute case of egotism kind of dull and annoying.  Unless you have a Nobel Prize or Oscar sitting on your bookshelf, don't try to impress me.  It ain't gonna work.

I deal with a lot of artists in my job at the library.  Musicians and writers and actors.  I've had conversations with two U. S. Poets Laureate and a Pulitzer Prize winner.  In New York once, I had a close encounter with Alex Baldwin.  I've taken a writing workshop with a novelist who won the National Book Award.  One of classmates from graduate school is a New York Times bestselling author. 

In my experience, very accomplished people don't have to brag about their achievements.  They don't want to be treated like celebrities or gods.  They crave normalcy, not adulation.  Sure, there are perks to a certain amount of celebrity--trips and money (sometimes) and kind words.  But there are also downsides--loss of privacy and constant scrutiny and the need to prove yourself (over and over and over).

I come from a family background that didn't really encourage pride.  Hard work was the name of the game.  If that hard work paid out in money or a certain amount of recognition, all the better.  However, I've never sought praise or attention.  Those things make me feel . . . uncomfortable, and I will often redirect the conversation or situation (when I can) if I find myself in the spotlight.

Don't get me wrong--I won't turn down a Pulitzer Prize or National Book Award or Nobel Prize.  (Heck, I won't turn down a free order of French fries from McDonald's).  But, given a choice, I will take my dog for a walk rather than talk about myself on TV or radio.

If, next October, Saint Marty gets a phone call from the Swedish Academy, naming him the first blogger/poet to win the Nobel Prize in Literature, you will probably find him on some trail in the woods, thanking the trees for their shade.

April 8: "Creché," Solar Eclipse, "Reflections on a Good Life Before a Solar Eclipse"

A moment of Christmas wonder with Billy Collins . . .

Creché

by:  Billy Collins

For a moment,

the ox and a sheep

looked over at each other,

then they turned away

and went back 

to adoring the Child.

It is difficult to maintain wonder for an extended period of time, even in the presence of the son of God.  Ask the ox and sheep.  Yes, there were angels singing, and, according to legend, talking doves and chickens (maybe) and a donkey (who probably just complained about how sore his hooves were after plodding across deserts and mountains).  However, as I said, wonder is hard to sustain.  It has a half life--eventually transmutating into awe and then surprise and then mild interest and then boredom.

Today, a total solar eclipse happened.  Not where I was, but in parts of the country.  My relatives in Detroit almost got totality, but some friends in Ohio experienced it all:  first contact to second contact to totality and back.  Me?  I got about 82.4%.  Still a pretty great show.

What amazed me most was the fact that everyone wasn't outside with proper eyewear to witness it.  I was working at the library, and, while the sun was being gobbled up by the moon's shadow, there people sat at the public computers, playing solitaire and researching genealogy and God knows what else.  All while one of the true miracles of the universe was happening above their heads.  Even the ox and sheep in Collins' poem eventually turn back to the Child.

I try hard not to become immune to wonder.  I've been married for almost 30 years to the same woman.  We've been through a lot together, some of it incredible and some of it terrible.  We are both human, and we both have made mistakes.  A lot of them.  Yet, we are still together and very much in love.  That is cause for wonder.  And we have two great kids who aren't meth addicts or sex workers or Republicans.  Another cause for wonder.  

I experienced something full of wonder this afternoon.  The sun almost completely disappeared for a little while from the heavens.  However, every day of my life, I experience something else full of wonder:  love.  As Bonnie Tyler sings--a total eclipse of the heart.

Here is a poem Saint Marty wrote last night in honor of today's wonder . . . 

Reflections on a Good Life Before a Solar Eclipse

by:  Martin Achatz

after Tracy K. Smith

The terrible thing about living

a good life is that you never

know you are living a good

life until it has become

memory, gilded in gold

leaf and bound in leather

on the bookshelf of the past.

Those newlywed days

when my wife waited 

every morning for calls

from schools desperate 

for warm bodies to fill

seats of missing teachers,

me writing after she left

until I had to report

to the book store where

I arranged porn mags,

recommended poetry

by Sharon Olds and sold

copies of John Grisham's

latest legal masterpiece,

those were good days, 

and when enough good days

are strung together, they become

a good life where, at night,

we pulled out the futon, 

got naked, covered ourselves

with a quilt, ate Oreos

as we read novels or watched

Seinfeld and laughed until

we were weak in each other's

arms.  Some nights, we slept

there, not bothering to stumble

to the bedroom, and we would

kiss and touch each other

until my body eclipsed hers

or her body eclipsed mine,

and we basked in the totality

of each other.

April 6: "Koan in the Rain," Eternity, Memories

Billy Collins imparts wisdom . . .

Koan in the Rain

by:  Billy Collins

You want to know

the sound of one hand clapping?

It is the same

as the sound of the other hand

holding the umbrella,

only slightly louder.

For those of you who know nothing about Zen Buddhism, a koan is a riddle/anecdote used to demonstrate the failings of logical thought and also to provide some kind of enlightenment.  So, for example, Collins answers the question "What does one hand clapping sound like?" with the image of the other hand "holding the umbrella, / only slightly louder."  It's not a logical response, but somehow it feels right.  Appropriate.

So the koan for this blog post is:  What is eternity?

It is Saturday, and I've been alone with my dog for most of the day.  The memory of the blizzard from the past week is melting away outside (I can hear watery fingers drumming on the roof and sidewalks).  I haven't accomplished a whole lot--a load of laundry, a long walk with my puppy, and quite a bit of heavy self-reflection.

Recently, in a therapy session, I found myself talking about memories that I haven't allowed myself to think about for a very long time.  I'm not going to delve into the details of these recollections, but they were quite painful, physically and mentally.  Things that happened over the course of many, many years.  (I apologize if you find my reticence to provide a fuller explanation frustrating.  Perhaps, in the future, I will be ready to open up.  Not today.)

What I will say is that I've been crying today.  A lot.  (I'm not telling you this to elicit sympathy,  I'm telling you this in order to answer the koan about eternity,)  Opening the door to these memories and feelings was like punching a hole in a dike.  The hole just keeps getting bigger and bigger, and more and more details from the past keep flooding through.

It's a little like being in a bad horror film where there are ghosts around every corner.  Each ghost is trying to talk to me or hand me something or take over my body.  I've been ignoring these ghosts for so long that they're a little pissed, and, now that I've let my defenses down, they're unleashing on me.  And that's not a bad thing.  It's time for some exorcisms.

As most of my faithful disciples know, I struggle with sadness at times.  And free-floating anxiety.  I wouldn't say these emotions are crippling.  I've become very used to them and have developed ways of coping that allow me to function every day.  Most of my acquaintances would probably describe me as funny, upbeat, positive.  That is true.  I love my friends and family.  However, when I'm alone, I often find myself mired in self-criticism, self-doubt, and low self-esteem.  (That admission may shock more than a few of you.)  I can't remember a time in my life when I haven't felt like this.

Don't worry.  I'm not going to harm myself.  Been down that road before, not going down it again.  The last few days have just been . . . long.  Filled with painful recollections, some panic, and barely-controlled weeping.

The world is thawing.  Water is flowing,  Everywhere.

That's Saint Marty's definition of eternity.

April 3: "The First Straw," Blizzard Warning, Yellow Snow

Billy Collins doesn't break camels' backs . . . 

The First Straw

by:  Billy Collins

The camel felt nothing

as it stood outside the tent,

its nose lifted in the desert air.

It has been a camel's back-breaking kind of day.  

I woke this morning to snow.  A lot of it.  And wind.  A lot of it.  And school closings (including the university).  A lot of them.  It wasn't a surprise.  The National Weather Service had given ample warning (from Winter Storm Watch to Winter Storm Warning to Blizzard Warning), so it's not like I was standing outside my house, nose lifted in the winter air, oblivious to the oncoming apocalypse. 

But yesterday, there was yellow-to-green grass all over, and spring seemed not a distant hope but a distinct possibility.  I could smell mud.  Always a good sign.  Now I'm staring at piles of plowed snow as tall as myself, and my body is sore from six or seven rounds with my shovel.  In short, I feel as if warmth and blossoms have flown to Walt Disney World for an extended vacation, and I'm left behind to clean things up.

That in itself feels like a last-straw moment, not a first-straw.

Spent the day working from home, answering emails, writing scripts, scheduling and rescheduling events.  All that in between taking my puppy out to bark at snow blowers and sniff around for those places where she's pissed.  (Don't eat yellow snow.)

It is almost 7 p.m. now.  The snow is still snowing, wind is still winding, and the National Weather Service has amended its predictions, calling for another nine inches of white by 8 a.m. tomorrow morning.  (I'm a little exhausted and am tempted to stand outside and go all ape-shit at the next plow that blasts by my driveway.)

Saint Marty's well of wisdom is dry tonight.  Snow in April just plain S-U-C-K-S.

March 29: "The Visit," Good Friday, Dead and Living

Billy Collins welcomes a guest . . .

The Visit

by:  Billy Collins

The wind blew

open the front door

and sat down

in my father's chair.

It is Good Friday, and I've hardly written anything this whole Lenten season  I had big intentions to write a new poem every day, from Ash Wednesday to Easter Sunday, this year.  But, the best laid plans of mice and poets . . . 

So, here I sit at a Subaru dealership, scribbling in my journal while my car gets an oil change and tire rotation, and I have only one or two terrible drafts of Lenten poems under my belt, feeling guilty, which is an appropriate emotion, I suppose, for this particular day of the Christian calendar.

I find myself kind of . . . haunted this morning.  The wind has kicked open the front door and plopped down on the couch beside me, metaphorically speaking.  The wind looks a lot like my mother.

You see, my mom was the person who brought me into the life of a church musician when I was about 17 years old.  Holy Week was always a marathon of Masses and music, my mother selecting the hymns, telling me when to show up at church.  Me, being a dutiful son, always followed her directions.  Thus, the Triduum resurrects my mother for me.  For the next three days, I feel her close by, hear her shadow soprano when I play, see her shadow form in the corners of the choir loft.

Right beside my mother is an army of ghosts.  My dead.  They gather beneath the arms of "The Old Rugged Cross," standing there (do ghosts stand?) as the pipe organ sighs and hums and booms.  My dad.  Two sisters.  A brother.  A passel of friends.  They sing and leap, dance and cry.  Crowd around me, waiting to hear favorite songs in their spectral ears (do ghosts have ears?).

Saint Marty can hear the stones rolling away, graves emptying, the dead and the living crowded in the kitchen, waiting for ham sandwiches, colored eggs, and baskets of chocolate.

March 28: "The Sunday Times," Sausages, Maunday Thursday

Billy Collins has breakfast . . . 

The Sunday Times

by:  Billy Collins

There's so much 

going on in the world

besides these sausages. 

It's so much easier to focus on the sausages instead of the latest from Ukraine or Washington, D. C.  Lot's of people choose simply to avoid the news, deeming it too depressing or slanted.  (I will be the first to admit that misinformation has exploded, thanks to AI, politicians, and general public gullibility.)  Of course, just focusing on the sausages on your plate hasn't always worked out for the best, historically speaking.  How many German citizens were preoccupied with their sauerbraten instead of what was happening at the Reichstag?  You see what I mean.

It is Maunday Thursday.  This evening, I played keyboard for a service at a local Lutheran church.  The narrative of the Last Supper was read.  Attendees were called forward by the pastor to lay hands on, bless, and give absolution.  Communion was distributed.  Then, at the end, we sang "O Sacred Head Surrounded" while the altar was stripped bare and sanctuary lights extinguished.  We left in silence.

It was a time to really pay attention to more than just the pizza you had for dinner or the mint sitting in the pocket between your gums and cheek.  I find all of Holy Week a pretty raw experience.  Because it's about examining your conscience and life.  It's impossible for me to attend these church services and not emerge bruised and more than a little bloody.

Introspection is difficult.  Nobody likes to think of their failings.  The Biblical story of Christ's passion is brutal, full of torture and death.  According to Christian tradition, that's the price Jesus paid for all the cruelties we inflict on each other day after day.  Things haven't changed all that much in 21 centuries.  We've just found better, more effective ways of hurting each other.  (If you don't believe that, you really do need to look up from your breakfast sausages.)

That's what the days of Holy Week are all about:  salvation from all the times we've fucked up our lives, relationships, and the world.  We need to be saved from our own myopic selves.  Just because Ukraine is 5000 miles away doesn't mean that what happens there has nothing to do with you.  If you call yourself a Christian, you're supposed to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, comfort the stranger and sick and oppressed.  Jesus is pretty clear about this in almost everything he says.

If you don't believe Saint Marty, try to find redemption in your oatmeal or bacon.

March 25: "Flash," Speeding Trains, Middle Finger

Billy Collins goes on a trip . . . 

Flash

by:  Billy Collins

As my train

sped by a schoolyard,

I caught a tall boy

missing a basket.

Reading this poem reminds me that life really is a flash.  We're all on speeding trains headed toward the same destination, staring out our windows to catch glimpses of . . . what?  Moments of happiness?  Sadness?  Boredom?  Rage?  Victory?  Failure?  Great food?  Lousy food?  Grief?  Joy?

It's impossible to avoid some of these stops on our journey.  They're like neighboring towns.  Love is just a few miles up the tracks from Loss.  Happiness Junction is a suburb of Sadness Springs.  You see what I mean?

They say the shortest distance between two points is a straight line.  That may be true.  However, most people don't walk or run or drive or fly or locomotive in straight lines.  No, the human race meanders, gets off the train on the edges of swamps and tundras.  We are drawn to difficulty and struggle, perhaps because they make victory and joy even sweeter.

When I was a kid, vacations seemed to last centuries.  The two weeks at Christmastime stretched out like a beached Blue Whale.  Summer vacation was like Lake Superior--blue on blue on blue all the way to the horizon, no end in sight.  Now, vacations are flashes--short as a plate of pancakes, gobbled up before I have a chance to even smell them.

That's what happens when you get older.  The train speeds up, and each day is just a snapshot from a passenger seat window.  Blink and you may miss your stop.  It seems like just yesterday when my daughter took her first breath, and now she's preparing for medical school.  And wasn't it just this morning when my son learned how to use his middle finger to piss me off?

I don't know how to slow things down.  The best I can do is write these blog posts and poems about these flashes.  Sometimes that works.  A lot of the times, it doesn't.  It's like holding your breath before blowing out the candles on a birthday cake.  As long as that pocket of air is held in the fists of your lungs, time stands still, and any wish seems possible.

Maybe Saint Marty is just a flash in the pan of your hour or day or life.  Close your eyes, and he'll be gone.

March 23: "View," Miraculous, Joy Fest

Billy Collins cloud watches . . . 

View

by:  Billy Collins

In the summer sky

a cloud with its mouth open

eats a smaller cloud.

Clouds are pretty magical when you think about it.  I remember spending hours watching clouds when I was a kid, finding walruses and penguins and dragons and Darth Vader.   According to Google, an average one kilometer by one kilometer cumulus cloud weighs around 1.1 million pounds.  That's 550 tons of water vapor floating above our heads.

There's so much in the universe that's miraculous.  I know I go through each and every day with blinders on, not really noticing things like one cloud eating another cloud.  Or bumblebees (they beat their wings more than 130 times per second).  Or the moon (it experiences moonquakes caused by Earth's gravity).  Or trees (there are 12 times the number of trees on our planet than there are stars in the Milky Way).  

Today, I hosted/attended an event at the library where I work.  The event was called the Joy Festival, and it was inspired by the spirit of my dear friend, Helen, who was an instrument of creativity and happiness her whole life.  We (Helen's friends) continued her mission today, lifting spirits, acknowledging pain, spreading wholeness and healing.

My job was probably the most un-Helen-ish part of the day.  As the host, I watched the clock, made sure that the presentations began and ended as scheduled.  Relatively.  Helen never really paid that much attention to time.  We all base our days on Greenwich Mean Time.  Helen ran on Helen Joy Time.  Standing around the Joy Center kitchen, eating crackers and chocolates and hummus, was just as important to her as the poetry workshop or meditation or yoga.  It was all part of the experience.

Helen loved every part of life, from joy to grief and back again.  She embraced the entire mess, and she taught others to do the same.  On a typical Helen day, she would slip sandals on her feet in the morning and go for a 20-plus mile hike, ending up on the shores of Lake Superior.  Along the way, she would run into friends and soon-to-be friends (everyone she met eventually became her friend); stop to forage raspberries when she got hungry; and, when she reached the shores of Superior, she would celebrate her adventure by greeting the seagulls and wading in the water.

Helen was like a cloud--immense and weightless at the same time.  She could be an otter or Queen Elizabeth.  She feasted on each day as if it was going to be her last.  

In short, Helen was a miracle in Saint Marty's life. 

March 19: "Motel Parking Lot," Goodbyes, Past or Future

Billy Collins says goodbye . . . 

Motel Parking Lot

by:  Billy Collins

Saying goodbye is so sad,

I don't even bother

to turn around to see

what it was you just threw at me.

I'm not good at goodbyes, either.  Collins is making a poetic joke.  I'm not.  Goodbyes involve change, something coming to an end.  I've never dealt well with change.  Yet, change is inevitable.  Life isn't static.  It's all about momentum.  No matter how fast you run away from it, change will catch up with you.

My son is learning how to drive.  My daughter and her significant other are moving to another town next week.  Those two statements might not seem like such a big deal, but they are huge to me.  I know that being a parent is about teaching my kids not to need me.  If I do my job well, they will be independent and resourceful.

I grew up in a very tight-knit family.  We worked together at the family plumbing business.  Went camping together in the summer.  Sat down every night for dinner together.  The key word here is "together."  For my whole life, I've known that I was loved.  It's one of the things I cherish most about my upbringing.

And I've tried to pass that same feeling down to my children.  No matter where they are, who they're with, what they're doing, my daughter and son will always be two of the greatest loves of my life.  I can't imagine a world without them.

My father and mother lived through the losses of two of their children--my brother and sister--in about a year's time.  I watched my dad literally fall apart during my brother's memorial service.  When my sister was dying, I watched my mother sitting beside her, holding her hand, saying over and over, "It's alright, baby.  You're alright.  Don't be afraid.  It's alright."  

As a parent, I don't even want to imagine having to say a goodbye like that.  It's a darkness that I never want to encounter.  Kids grow up, move away, forge new lives.  That's what they're supposed to do.  Fathers and mothers watch from the stadium seats, cheering every fumble or pass or touchdown.  (Sorry for the football analogy.)

One day, sooner than I care to admit, my son will be driving away from me in his own car, and my daughter will be dissecting cadavers in medical school far away.  (Do they still do that?)  My relatives are getting older.  I just realized this past Christmas that I've joined the ranks of the elders at family gatherings.  I see a lot of goodbyes in my future.

But tonight, I'm taking a cue from my puppy, who doesn't fret about the past or future.  She lives in the moment.  Thoughts of the future are beyond her ken.  She will deal with goodbyes when they happen.  No sense worrying about something that hasn't occurred.

Saint Marty's kids are happy and healthy.  His car is working.  He can flush the toilet in his home.  There's food in his fridge.  And not a goodbye in sight.

March 15: "Poetry," Aunt Aileen, Joy at My Joy

Billy Collins' writing process . . .

Poetry

by:  Billy Collins

As if it were not hard enough,

whenever my pencil

moves along the page,

the pink eraser end points up,

a little finger wagging,

reminding me of our appointment.

Writing has been my life since I was very young.  Words help me understand life, the world, my place in the world.  My memories are not preserved in snapshots and photos.  They are recorded in poems and short stories and essays and blog posts.  When I read one of my old poems, I experience all the emotions and sensations that inspired me to write it.  Poetry is my time capsule, I guess.

Of course, poems are revised and shaped.  Rarely do they emerge fully formed.  (It happens, but not very often.)  When I sit down to write anything, I'm not really about what is emerging on the page or screen.  I'm about what is beyond the veil of those words, that shining mansion on the hill, if you will.  Whatever that mansion is.  I approach it, eraser in hand, ready to make it as beautiful and true as I can.

Yesterday, I wrote about my Aunt Aileen.  I tried to approach her shining mansion as close as I could with my words.  I'm not sure I truly succeeded in capturing her spirit and importance in my childhood and young adulthood.  As always, truth is elusive, and I often feel like Ahab chasing the white whale.

Aunt Aileen took her last breath around 3:30 this morning.  

Nothing I write in this post will come close to paying due honor and homage to this woman.  She blazed through times of great joy and great heartbreak.  At least in my life. 

I'm going to type a phrase now that is fraught with problems--a phrase dependent on the fallibility of the human brain:  I remember.

I remember when I was struggling during a terrible breakup with my girlfriend (who has now been my wife for close to 30 years).  Aunt Aileen had met my future wife, liked her a lot.  (Truth be told:  Aunt Aileen liked everyone.)  I spent almost a month that breakup summer at Aunt Aileen's house downstate, moping, wallowing, crying.  I was not a fun person to be around.  I don't know how my aunt put up with me, but she did.  And she gave me a lot of ice cream.

My girlfriend and I eventually reconciled.  About a year later, at my sister's wedding reception, I was dancing with Aunt Aileen.  The DJ's music was loud, and I could barely hear what Aunt Aileen was saying to me.  She put her mouth close to my ear and said, "I'm so happy things worked out for you."

That's who Aunt Aileen was.  Wanting everyone to live their best lives.

I'm holding onto that--her joy at my joy.  Even though she struggled the last years of her life, physically and mentally, Aunt Aileen will always be, in my mind's eye, my dance partner that evening, celebrating my happiness.

The world is a little bit darker tonight for Saint Marty, and the heavens are a little bit brighter.

March 14: "A Memory," Aunt Aileen, Chinook Salmon

Billy Collins recalls something . . . 

A Memory

by:  Billy Collins

It came back to me

not in the way

a thing might be returned 

to its rightful owner

but like dance music

traveling in the dark

from one end 

of a lake to the other.

I know exactly what Collins is talking about--that moment when you hear a song/piece of music and are suddenly transported to another place and time.  When I hear the Simple Minds singing "Don't You (Forget About Me)," I'm sitting in the Butler Theater in the dark with my high school friends.  We're watching The Breakfast Club, sort of, and sneaking sips of a Diet Coke spiked with Malibu.  The topic of conversation is Molly Ringwald versus Ally Sheedy.  (I am firmly in the Molly camp.)  In a week or so, we'll all be graduating, and, a few months after that, we'll all be off to college, and nothing will ever be the same again.

All that from a song, traveling in the dark from one end of a lake to the other.

When I was an undergraduate in college, I would spend about a month every summer living downstate at my Aunt Aileen and Uncle Larry's house.  My sister and I would would drive down with a pop up camper and set up shop in their backyard.  We would swim in their pond, visit relatives and cousins, go shopping, watch movies.  We rarely made huge plans.  Some years, we would visit the Detroit Zoo.  Others, we would take a ferry to Boblo Island Amusement Park for the day.

My memories of those vacations are gilded with nostalgia.  Yes, I was in college.  Yes, I was supposed to be a young adult.  Should I have gotten a summer job instead?  Maybe.  I didn't have a whole lot of money, but I did have a full-ride scholarship and was still living in my parents' house.  My expenses mainly consisted of movies, books, and clothes.

My Uncle Larry passed away quite a few years ago from cancer.  I just found out that Aunt Aileen has been placed on hospice care.  She's been suffering from dementia for a while and recently fell and broke her hip.  According to my sister, Aunt Aileen's oxygen saturation is down to 88%, and her breathing is labored.

Aunt Aileen is my dad's sister, and our two families have always been very close.  There were nine kids in our family.  Aunt Aileen and Uncle Larry had ten kids.  When our clans got together for Thanksgivings, the table would extend from the dining room out into the hall.  During my middle and high school years, we would all go camping together at a local state park.  (Some of my cousins still travel to the U. P. every year to camp.)  Like I said, we were really close.

On my way home from work tonight, I heard Bob Seger's "Old Time Rock & Roll."  One of my Aunt Aileen's favorite songs.  For a quiet, soft-spoken lady, she really dug Seger.  (And it had nothing to do with Tom Cruise sliding around in his socks and underwear in Risky Business.)  As I tapped on my steering wheel and sang along, I tried to remember the last time I saw Aunt Aileen.  

It was at least five or six years ago.  I think she drove up with her oldest son and his wife.  (I could be wrong on this fact.  Memory is a slippery thing, like trying to land a Chinook salmon.)  Aunt Aileen looked much older, but she still had the same spark and sense of humor that allowed her to survive raising a family of ten.  

Up until a little while ago, she would send me birthday cards every year, without fail.  And Christmas cards.  All written in her loopy, beautiful script.  She loved going to Dairy Queen with us for ice cream and watching Abbott and Costello movies late at night.  In a world of Donald Trumps, she was a Dorothy Day, making sure everyone was warm and fed and loved.  

That's how Saint Marty will always remember her.

March 13: "Falling Asleep," Sense of Wonder, Nobel Prize in Literature

Billy Collins catches 40 winks . . .

Falling Asleep

by:  Billy Collins

Walking backwards

into a dark forest,

I sweep my footprints

out of existence

with a large

weightless branch.

As young kids, we fight sleep.  I think it's because there's just too much to do, too many new things to taste, touch, smell, hear, feel.  In our undeveloped minds, we think that we might miss out on something important if we close our eyes and allow ourselves to check out for a while.

As we become adults, we lose our sense of wonder at the world.  All the little gifts of each and every day become . . . ordinary.  Boring even.  So there is less to stay awake for.  Instead, sleep becomes the unknown frontier, where wonder rules.  Your fingers can turn into elephant trunks.  You can win the Nobel Prize in Literature.  Marry or have sex with your high school crush.  Attend Woodstock.  Fly to the rings of Saturn.  All by walking backwards into that dark forest.

Perhaps that's why sleep becomes so pleasurable was we get older.  It's an escape from the daily pressures of work and family and life.  We venture into the Land of Nod, brush away our footprints, and lose ourselves for a little while.

As I've said in previous posts, sleep and I have never been friends.  We aren't even on a first-name basis.  I don't usually close my eyes until well past midnight.  Most nights, I see 1 a.m.  It's not that I don't enjoy sleep or suffer night terrors.  It's because my monkey brain refuses to stop climbing trees and flinging coconuts and shit at the world.  I go for days on five hours of shut-eye a night, and then my body and mind will close down.  I have no choice but to sleep.

I'm tired tonight.  Really tired.  Perhaps because I've been working on school and work crap since 7:30 this morning.  Or because of Daylight Saving Time this past weekend.  Or the fact that I haven't gotten more than four hours of sleep a night for about two weeks.

Whatever the reason, Saint Marty is ready to close his eyes and accept his Nobel Prize.

March 9: "Eyes," Pretty Honest, One Truth

Billy Collins opens his . . . 

Eyes

by:  Billy Collins

O little twin spheres

echoing

the shape of the earth

and a perfect match

for the blue

curvature of the sky,

no wonder

the dark, descending birds

always begin with you.

Kind of a bleak little image there--dark, descending birds always beginning with the eyes.  Right out of a Grimm fairy tale.  Or an Alfred Hitchcock movie.  

There's an old saying that eyes are the windows to the soul.  The mouth can lie.  So can the face.  Even the body can lie.  But eyes simply can't lie, unless you happen to be a sociopath with an orange complexion and really bad hair.  

However, I believe that most people are pretty honest.  That doesn't mean that all truths are valid.  That means that every individual owns a piece of the puzzle, and if all of those pieces could be put together, the full truth would be revealed.

Here are the truths of today, as seen through my eyes:

1) Winter returned today, with snow and wind and ice.  

2) My puppy likes to bark.  All.  Day.  Long.  At other dogs.  Passing cars.  The mail carrier.

3) I love my wife.

4) I love my kids.

5) I love my sisters, who live only a block away from me.

6) I love my friends who came over tonight to play board games.

7) I love watching movies late at night.

8) I intensely dislike Daylight Saving Time in the spring.

9) Poetry can save your life.

10) Nobody should act out of anger or resentment.

11) Those that love you the most can hurt you the most.

12) Cheese should be its own food group.

13) The Oscars are more entertaining than the Super Bowl.

14) Naps are one of the greatest pleasure in life.

15) Everyone should watch a sunrise at least once a week.

16) Everyone should watch a sunset at least once a week.

17) The movie Wonka is pretty amazing.

Some disciples reading this post might not agree with a few (or all) of my truths.  That's okay.  Peace on Earth doesn't mean that everyone agrees on what the truth is.  It means that, despite all of our different truths, we can still love each other and help each other in times of need.

Saint Marty hopes we can all agree on that one truth.

And also that Donald Trump is batshit crazy.

March 8: "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow," International Women's Day, Laughter

Caution:  Emily Dickinson allusion ahead!

Billy Collins on a Longfellow in the grass . . . 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

by:  Billy Collins

Trouble

was not

his middle name.

If you haven't noticed, I dislike people who take themselves too seriously.  Perhaps that's why Billy Collins' poems appeal to me so much.  He doesn't mind having fun.  Popping inflated egos.  Seeing the ridiculous and the sublime.  

Today was International Women's Day.  I've been around strong women my whole life.  My mother and sisters.  My beautiful wife and daughter.  Mentors and best friends.  The man sitting here tonight typing this post is a product of the women he's had the privilege to know and love.

One of the greatest lessons I've learned from these wonderful women is humor.  Women have to have senses of humor to deal with all the stupid shit men have done and do in this world.  Think about it.  The Cold War.  Healthcare.  World Hunger.  Climate change.  All the result of male ego, ignorance, and hostility.  

If women had been in charge, the Cuban Missile Crisis could have been solved over a couple Bloody Marys.  Universal health care in the United States?  No problem for a government run by Mother Teresa.  Put Greta Thunberg in charge of combatting climate change.  Julia Child could have ended world hunger decades ago.  And my mom could have stopped all of the insurrectionists on January 6 by just standing on the steps of the Capital with one of her wooden spoons.  

The world would be a much happier place if women were in charge.  There would be a lot more laughter and compassion, and a lot less name-calling and stick throwing. I believe this to the marrow of my bones.  (Of course, there are some exceptions--Marjorie Taylor Greene and Lauren Boebert come to mind.  And, let's be honest, Lindsey Graham.)  

So, for all the joy and love and support that the women in his life have given him, Saint Marty salutes you.

March 7: "Simplicity," Blocked Sewer, Simple Things

Billy Collins keeps things simple . . .

Simplicity

by:  Billy Collins

Dalmatian

is hard

to pronounce,

so the children,

pointing, say

fire truck dog.

I like the simple things in life.  Sunrises.  Sunsets.  Good books.  Good poems.  The smell of my wife's hair when I crawl into bed and put my arm around her.  The sound of my son's laughter when he doesn't know I'm listening to him.  A text message from my daughter, even if she's asking for money.  Thanksgiving dinner.  Petting my dog's belly.  (By the way, she's an Australian Shepherd, not a Dalmatian.)  When life is simple, everything is better.

My life was not simple today.

My wife woke me up at 5:30 a.m. to tell me that something was seriously wrong with the drains in the bathroom.  She was right.  The sewer was blocked.  I tried a few tricks my dad, brother, and sister (all Master Plumbers) have shown me over the years.  None of the tricks worked.  So, we called a plumber, and I left for work, leaving my wife to deal with the shit (literally).  

Needless to say, I was pretty stressed all day long, imagining all kinds of horrible scenarios, including, but not limited to:  a collapsed sewer pipe, bulldozers tearing up my property, and thousands of dollars of debt.  I could barely concentrate on anything all morning long.

The plumber showed up at 9:30 this morning, and, about an hour-and-a-half later, he left with a $250 check, saying, "It's unblocked for now."

I have no idea what he meant with the "for now."  Does that mean that he expects it to be blocked again by tomorrow morning?  Or that he just doesn't know what caused the blockage?  Or that he wanted to cover his ass by adding "for now" as a "No Guarantees" clause for his services?

Well, I can go the bathroom in my house.  For now.  That's what I'm holding onto tonight.  We often take simple things like that for granted.  I'm not.  If you think about it, every time we flip a switch and a light comes on, we should say thanks.  Every time we turn a handle and cold, clean water pours out of a tap, we should say thanks.  And every time we flush a toilet and the shit and piss disappears, we should shout "Hallelujah!"

Saint Marty is now--simply-- going to say goodnight.

March 6: "D Major," Key Signatures, Driver's Education

Billy Collins with music theory . . .

D Major

by:  Billy Collins

A favorite

key signature

of pals

featuring, 

as it does,

two sharps.

I studied music theory for a long time.  Over ten years of piano lessons, plus a couple more years of organ lessons.  I know all about which key signatures are most friendly (C, D, F, G, B-flat), which ones are foreign spies sent to kill you (C# Major anyone?). 

It's a little psychological.  I'm pretty good with key signatures that have a lot of flats.  However, the more hashtags I see on a piece of music, the less likely I am to play it.  My mind sort of fucks with me--bubbling with panic and nerves.  No matter how many hours I've practiced, I will mess up any piece of music above E Major (four sharps).

I'm reminded of a scene from the movie Amadeus.  Mozart is being addressed by Emperor Joseph II after a performance of one of Mozart's operas.  Joseph looks at Mozart and says, "My dear young man, don't take it too hard.  Your work is ingenious.  It's quality work.  And there are simply too many notes, that's all."

I've literally looked at a new song or prelude of interlude and said aloud, "Ingenious.  Quality work.  There are simply too many sharps."

Of course, you can't go through life avoiding all the sharps you encounter.  If I did that, I wouldn't have so many college degrees.  Or work at a library.  Or write poetry.  Or play the pipe organ at five different churches.  Or have a blog.  Or be married.  Or have kids.

The key signature for life is C# Major.  Sometimes B Major, if you're lucky.  Either you practice and rehearse until you get it right, or you lock your front door and ignore the world completely.  For me, even though I'm an introvert and would have no problem turning into Howard Hughes, I have to play the sheet music that's on the stand in front of me, no matter how many sharps or flats it contains.

Here is what I've learned after all these years:  the more often you play a complex piece of music, the easier it becomes.  Practice does indeed make perfect.  Well, maybe not perfect.  More like practice makes not humiliating or dangerous.

I tried this analogy on my son this afternoon.  He's facing his first day behind the wheel in his driver's education class.  He was n-e-r-v-o-u-s.  However, he didn't appreciate my extended musical analogy.  I believe what he said to me was, "Can you please stop talking?"  I stopped.

Here's the thing about music:  it's beautiful, regardless of the numbers of sharps or flats.  It can lift you up.  Keep you grounded.  Inspire you.  Make you sad.  Just like life.

Saint Marty hopes his son has a C Major kind of day--no sharps, no flats, no red lights, no detours.  

March 5: "Twisting Time," Super Tuesday, Stupidity and Hatred

Billy Collins on getting older . . .

Twisting Time

by:  Billy Collins

I am twisting again

but not like I did last summer

or the summer before

or the summer before that.

I am twisting more slowly now

because it is cold

and I have grown heavy

and there is hardly any wind.

I'm sitting here on Super Tuesday, and I am twisting again.  Not because I'm feeling slower or have grown heavy.  And not because there is hardly any wind.

I am twisting again because I've just caught some of tonight's election returns, with Donald Trump winning every Republican primary.  I started watching Trump's speech from Mar-a-Lago and had to turn it off.  It literally made me physically ill.

My father was a life-long Republican.  I've voted Democrat in every presidential election since I turned 18 years old.  You could say that I come from a bi-partisan family.  Yet, I just can't comprehend what is going on in the United States these days.

Donald Trump is a criminal.  A liar.  A rapist.  A traitor.  He tried to overthrow the U. S government four years ago.  He's responsible for the deaths of tens of thousands of people because of his handling of the pandemic while he was in office.  He fosters hatred and violence every time he opens his mouth.

Yet he is going to be the Republican nominee for President of the United States again.  

What the fuck is wrong with people?  

If you aren't twisting uncomfortably at the thought of another Donald Trump presidency, do me a favor:  inject yourself with bleach (Trump's cure for COVID), and just stay home for then next nine or so months.

Because the United States (and the world) will not survive another four-year pandemic of Trump stupidity and hatred.  

Saint Marty is ashamed of his country tonight.