January 14, 2025: "Of All the Dead That Have Come to Me, This Once," Forgiveness, "One Breath"

I'm not a person who wishes people pain or death, no matter what they've done/are doing.  Yet, I'm ashamed to admit that when I first heard someone tried to assassinate the Felon in Chief last summer, my first thought wasn't to pray for him and his family.  My first thought was a question:  why couldn't the gunman have had better aim?  (Again, not my proudest moment, I know.)  But it's difficult to work up any empathy for a person who pretty much is the poster boy for intolerance and hatred.

Sharon Olds talks about abuse . . . 

Of All the Dead That Have Come

to Me, This Once

by: Sharon Olds

I have never written against the dead, I would

          open my

shirt to them and say yes, the white

cones still making sugary milk,

but when Grandfather's gold pocketwatch

came in by air over the Rockies,

over the dark yellow of the fields

and the black rivers, with Grandmother's blank

face pressed against his name in the back,

I thought of how he put the empty

plate in front of my sister, turned out

the lights after supper, sat in the black

room with the fire, the light of the flames

flashing in his glass eye

in the cabin where he taught my father

how to do what he did to me, and I said

No.  I said Let this one be dead.

Let the fall he made through that glass roof,

splintering, turning, the great shanks and

slices of glass in the air, be his last

appearance here.

Is it possible to be a good person and also not forgive somebody who's caused you considerable pain and suffering?

I don't know the answer to that question.  As a Christian, I learned the whole turn to other cheek thing.  Forgiveness is an important part of any Christian denomination's belief system.  Jesus came into the world to provide redemption.  I can cite, chapter and verse, the whole thing--sin, sacrifice, condemnation, crucifixion, resurrection, salvation.

Now, I do believe that it's possible for anyone to be forgiven.  However, that forgiveness comes with a price:  remorse.  If you won't admit that you've fucked up, you can't really be absolved.  That would be like shooting the last rhino on the planet, making a nice leather couch out of its hide, and then saying "oops, my bad" while sitting on the couch and watching Netflix.  It just doesn't work.

If you're expecting me to start naming names, I'm not going to do that.  Shaming someone, while it might feel really good (I mean REALLY good), isn't a good way to elicit true regret.  Instead, it just makes the shamer look petty and small.  I don't need help looking petty and small.  It comes naturally to me.  

Plus, there's this little thing called penance.  It's not enough to just say "I'm sorry."  You have to prove that you're truly sorry through action.  That's really the name of the game in Christianity.  Don't just SAY you care about the homeless.  GIVE that homeless person a room at the inn,  See what I mean?

Every day (sometimes several times a day), I forgive people who've hurt me.  Because forgiveness is hard work, too.  If I've harmed you in any way, I ask your forgiveness.  I'll try to make it up to you, I swear.

Come into my home.  Grab a bag of Cheetos from the cupboard and lie down on my genuine rhino couch.  Let's watch some episodes of Breaking Bad on Hulu together.  

Saint Marty takes a deep breath with today's prompt from The Daily Poet:

Write a poem that is made up completely of one run-on sentence.  You can use commas, but no colons or semicolons.  The poem can be on any topic you wish, but it must be one complete sentence.  If you're not sure how to begin, start with the line, S/he told me once . . .  Allow the poem to wander through various scenes and details.  To keep the poem moving, use conjunctions like and, but, however, and although.

One Breath

by: Martin Achatz

One breath can hold a lot, like how
I didn’t sleep well last night
because the neighbor’s Great Dane
kept barking a steady cadence,
as if she was keeping time
for a young boy practicing a piece
on the piano for his lesson
in the morning, maybe “Minuet
in G Major” or, God help us,
“Let It Be,” playing it so poorly
John Lennon’s soul wept in
whatever cosmic weigh station
he happened to be, halfway between
The Dakota and the strawberry
fields of his imagination, so
I was awake, working complex
algebra problems in my head,
trying to think of all the words
to the “Gettysburg Address” that I
memorized as a sixth grader,
wondering if Lincoln was nervous
when he stood in front of the throng
on that battlefield, pulled the text
of the speech from his tall, black
hat, knowing anyone in front
or behind him could pull out
a revolver and add his blood
to the blood already soaking
the dark soil beneath his boots,
and maybe he took a shallow,
shivering gulp of air before
releasing his first word, looking
into the eyes fixed on him,
thinking how the dog barking
in the distance sounded like
a canon firing at all the souls
storming the gates of paradise.

December 14, 2024: "Best Fall," Good Ole Days, Golden Light

Today, I found myself full of nostalgia for the "good ole days."  Now, if you ask me what the "good ole days" were, I wouldn't be able to define them all that well.  I suppose it would include me not having to work five jobs; my kids being young enough still to think I was one step away from being a god; all my siblings living and healthy; and the Felon in Chief being just a two-bit real estate hustler with a bad haircut, living off his daddy's fortune. 

Billy Collins gets nostalgic, too . . . 

Best Fall

by: Billy Collins

was what we called a game we played

which had nothing to do

with a favorite autumn,

somebody else’s gorgeous reds and yellows.

no, eleven years old

all we wanted was to be shot

as we charged sacrificially into the fire

of the shooter lying prone behind a hedge,

or even better, to be that shooter

and pick off the others

as they charged the gun

each one stopping in his young tracks

to writhe and twist

aping the contortions of death

from the movies,

clutching our bleeding hearts

holding ourselves

as we lifted—a moment of ballet—

into the air then tumbled

into the grass behind our houses.

and whoever invented that game

made sure it would have

no ending,

for the one who was awarded

best fall by the shooter

got to be the next shooter

and so it went, shooting and being shot,

tearing at our cowboy shirts

trying our best

to make death look good

until it got almost dark

and our mothers called us in.

Of course, nostalgia paints the past in golden light, erasing all the struggles and pains and stresses.  It's not about objective reality.  Rather, it's a Norman Rockwell rendering of reality, wholesome and mostly untrue.  

Yet, most of the day, I was yearning for John Hughes movies and Walkmans, Molly Ringwald and River Phoenix.  My life was seemed much simpler back then.  No mortgages, car payments, or income taxes.  All I worried about was getting someone to take me to see Star Wars:  A New Hope again.  (I saw that film 27 times in the theater when it was first released.)  

I'm sure one or two or five years down the road, I'm going to be thinking back nostalgically on tonight.  Christmas tree glowing in the corner of the room.  Puppy snoring and moaning in her cage.  A full moon glowing in tree branches outside.  And Joe Biden serving as President of the United States.  (Come January 20, 2025, when the Felon in Chief takes the oath of office, the past four years are going to seem like a trip to Oz on the back of a flying monkey named Ozzie.)

Nostalgia is a retreat from unpleasant or painful presents.  An escape hatch, if you will.  The 1980s were far from perfect (Ronald Reagan was President of the United States, for God's sake!), but we had the best music.  The past four years weren't utopian, but we didn't have a person with the IQ of a rabbit in charge of the nuclear codes.  

For me, thinking backward is a retreat from the darkness I'm currently experiencing.  I remember lying on my bed, listening to the local Top 40 station, recording a hit mix of songs with my cassette player.  Billy Joel's "It's Still Rock and Roll to Me" and Yes's "Owner of a Lonely Heart."  And that was the most important thing I had to do.

Saint Marty will return to reality tomorrow.  Tonight, he's going to watch bad Hallmark holiday movies and dream of white Christmases, just like the ones he used to know.  Without global warming, convicted rapists in the Oval Office, and Fox News.

November 19: "Promenade," Bigfoot Poem, Normal

I don't mind being strange.  Don't mind if people stare at me because I'm being too loud or too friendly or too anything.  I've never really been the posterchild for "normal."  Instead, I write poems about cryptids and immortal jellyfish.  

Billy Collins takes his bird for a walk . . . 

Promenade

by: Billy Collins

As much as these erratic clouds keep sweeping

this way and that over the roof 

of this blue house bordered by hedges and fruit trees,

and as much as the world continues to run

in all directions with its head in its hands,

there is one particular robin who appears

every morning on a section of lawn

by the front door with such regularity

he could be a lighthouse keeper or a clock maker.

He could be Immanuel Kant were he not so small

and feathered, whom the citizens set their watches by

a he walked through town with his hair curled.

It takes a lot to startle this bird--

only a hand clap will make him rise

to one of the low branches of the nearby apple tree.

So I am wondering if he would allow me

to slip a small collar around his neck

and take him for a walk, first around the house

then later, when more trust has been gained,

into town where we would pass the locals 

with their children and orthodox dogs in tow,

and I would hold the robin lightly by a string

as we waited to cross the street, then he would hop

off the curb and off we would go

not caring about what people were saying

even when we stopped at a store front

to admire our strange reflections in the window.

I really don't know what "normal" is.  Some people think voting for a convicted felon to be President of the United States is normal.  Or appointing a person who was investigated for sex trafficking to be Attorney General.  Normal is in the eyes of the beholder.

I am sitting in my living room at the moment.  The Christmas tree is glowing in the corner.  Everyone else has gone to bed.  It's raining, and the trees are gauzed with fog.  It's been a day fraught with meetings and grading and teaching.  I haven't really had any downtime until now.  

All that is normal for me.

So is writing a Bigfoot poem.  Putting up Christmas decorations the day after Halloween.  Getting up at 5 a.m. to catch the livestreamed announcement of the winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature.  Watching the same movie every night for three months straight.  Eating warm tapioca pudding.

This weekend, I ran into an acquaintance I hadn't seen in several years. I made an off-handed comment to her about the last couple weeks being particularly difficult for a lot of people.  My acquaintance looked genuinely confused.  When I mentioned the election, she smiled and said, "I think you and I are on opposite sides on that, but that doesn't mean we can't be friends."

I agree with my acquaintance.  I can still be friends with people who hold different political and social ideals.  My father was a lifelong Republican and member of the John Birch Society.  We couldn't have been more different, and yet we still loved each other.  (That doesn't mean we got along 100% of the time.  Ours was problematic relationship.)

Here are some other things that SHOULD be normal in the United States:  kindness, compassion, acceptance, charity, tolerance, respect, courtesy, equality, love.  Unfortunately, over half the people in this "Christian" country think otherwise.  Hate has become as normal as grass or snow.  One way or the other, you're eventually going to step in it.  

Buckle up, disciples.  It's gonna be a bumpy four years.

Saint Marty may make drinking a glass of wine every night his new normal.

November 14: "Foundling," Poet's Life, Tonic

I've been living the life of a poet for a very, very long time.

That means that I've juggled two or three (or four or five) jobs my entire life.  In the past, I have been a:  sales clerk at a bookstore; office person at an outpatient surgery center (for 25 years); housekeeper at a hospital (all shifts); cleaning person at two churches; busboy at a local fish fry; and a plumber's apprentice.  

Currently, I'm a contingent professor of English at a university for going on 30 years (all the knowledge and teaching experience of a full professor at a quarter of the normal price).  I play keyboard/pipe organ at four different churches.  And I am the full-time adult program coordinator at a library (the best job I've ever had).

Finally, through all of those occupations, I have been and always will be a poet.

Billy Collins writes about the poet's life . . . 

Foundling

by: Billy Collins

How unusual to be living a life of continual self-expression,
jotting down little things,
noticing a leaf being carried down a stream,
then wondering what will become of me,

and finally to work alone under a lamp
as if everything depended on this,
groping blindly down a page,
like someone lost in a forest.

And to think it all began one night
on the steps of a nunnery
where I lay gazing up from a sewing basket,
which was doubling for a proper baby carrier,

staring into the turbulent winter sky,
too young to wonder about anything
including my recent abandonment—
but it was there that I committed

my first act of self-expression,
sticking out my infant tongue
and receiving in return (I can see it now)
a large, pristine snowflake much like any other.

Of course, Collins is indulging in a little storytelling here.  He was not a foundling left on the stoop of a convent and raised by nuns.  Yet, the essence of the poem is the truth--most poets I know have felt the pull of language from a very young age.  We've all had our pristine snowflake moments.

Tonight, I spent a lot of time with poet friends.  First, we gathered at the library for a workshop and open mic.  Then, we migrated to a local night spot where another poet/musician/artist friend was hosting a party in celebration of the release of his new album.  And it was a true tonic for my spirit.

You see, in my experience, poets see the world differently.  They keep their eyes wide open for moments of grace in their days and nights.  They're compassionate lovers of all people, regardless of skin color, gender, sexual orientation, ethnicity, religion, or country of origin.  And they care deeply for this little planet we live on--are stewards of the lands and waters and air.

Now, do me a favor if you are a Christian.  Reread that previous paragraph.  Replace the word "poets" with the word "Jesus."  That is the Jesus I grew up knowing.  If you have an issue with any of the above statements in your understanding of Jesus, you are not a true Christian.  Period.

So, being around poets (some of them atheists and agnostics) who embody compassion and caring and concern for the world and all its inhabitants is like going to church for me in a way.  Because the people I hung with tonight are, quite simply, some of the best people I know.  Yes, they are disappointed and angry with the results of the election.  Yes, they see the Felon in Chief as a serious threat to loving your neighbor as yourself.  (By the way, I didn't say that.  Jesus did in the Gospel of Mark.)

Poets are not going to lock up and deport immigrants.  They aren't going to take healthcare away from poor people.  Or endanger the lives of, take away the autonomy of women.  They certainly aren't going to storm the Capitol Building and kill police officers to peacefully protest the certification of the election.  That's not what poets do.

I know I'm preaching to the choir with this post.  Anyone who supports the Felon in Chief stopped reading these words quite a while ago.  That's okay.  That's their right.

And it's Saint Marty's (and all his poet friends') right to say, "Fuck you."

November 13: "The Sandhill Cranes of Nebraska," Whole Lot of Rancor, Momentous

I will freely admit that I was in a pretty shitty mood all day long.  Just lots of stressful stuff going on in my head and in the world.  I've been purposely avoiding any news about the Felon in Chief or his flunkies.  Don't really give a shit what mouth breathers he's appointing to his so-called cabinet posts.  And I don't think I'm really missing anything, aside from a headache and a whole lot of rancor.

Billy Collins misses something good . . . 

The Sandhill Cranes of Nebraska

by: Billy Collins

Too bad you weren’t here six months ago,
was a lament I heard on my visit to Nebraska.
You could have seen the astonishing spectacle
of the sandhill cranes, thousands of them
feeding and even dancing on the shores of the Platte River.

There was no point in pointing out
the impossibility of my being there then
because I happened to be somewhere else,
so I nodded and put on a look of mild disappointment
if only to be part of the commiseration.

It was the same look I remember wearing
about six months ago in Georgia
when I was told that I had just missed
the spectacular annual outburst of azaleas,
brilliant against the green backdrop of spring

and the same in Vermont six months before that
when I arrived shortly after
the magnificent foliage had gloriously peaked,
Mother Nature, as she is called,
having touched the hills with her many-colored brush,

a phenomenon that occurs, like the others,
around the same time every year when I am apparently off
in another state, stuck in a motel lobby
with the local paper and a styrofoam cup of coffee,
busily missing God knows what.

I will say that I participated in a really wonderful event this evening.  A variety-type show that one of my best writer friends hosts and some of my favorite musician friends appear in, as well.  We read poems, sang songs, and told stories. 

The theme for the show was "Momentous."  We chose it over two months ago, thinking that we were going to have something truly momentous to celebrate--the election of the first woman to be President of the United States.  Y'all know how that turned out.  So, instead, we focused on those small momentous things that bring joy and hope in our lives.

Collins lists a few of those momentous things in today's poem--the sandhill cranes of Nebraska, azaleas in  of Georgia, autumn leaves of Vermont.  Yet, he keeps missing these wonders by a few days or a week.  He has to settle for descriptions of these momentous sights, instead.

I did not miss the wonders that unfolded tonight at the library.  I got to sit on stage and listen to it all.  And it was a privilege.  

Here's Saint Marty's moment of hope for today--singing songs with some of my best writer and musician friends.  You know who you are.  It filled Saint Marty's heart with gratitude, like moonlight in a dark night sky.

November 8: "Cemetery Ride," Weird Week, Orange Sections

At the end of this long, dark, weird week, I can honestly say that I haven't listened to or read any news reports about the Felon in Chief.  I simply can't.  Eight years ago, I dreaded checking my news feed in the morning.  Hated his voice and face and stupidity.  I sometimes harbored pretty scary wishes in my heart against him, including death.  I'm not proud of those thoughts, but I own them.  These last few days, I've found the same thoughts returning.

Billy Collins takes a bike ride . . .

Cemetery Ride

by: Billy Collins

My new copper-colored bicycle
is looking pretty fine under a blue sky 

as I pedal along a sandy path 

in the Palm Cemetery here in Florida,

wheeling past the headstones of the Lyons, 

the Campbells, the Dunlaps, and the Davenports, 

Arthur and Ethel, who outlived him by 11 years. 

I slow down even more to notice,

but not so much as to fall sideways on the ground. 

And here’s a guy named Happy Grant 

next to his wife Jean in their endless bed. 

Annie Sue Simms is right there and sounds

a lot more fun than Theodosia S. Hawley. 

And good afternoon, Emily Polasek, 

and to you too, George and Jane Cooper, 

facing each other in profile, two sides of a coin.

I wish I could take you all for a ride 

in my wire basket on this glorious April day, 

not a thing as simple as your name, Bill Smith, 

even trickier than Clarence Augustus Coddington.

Then how about just you, Enid Parker? 

Would you gather up your voluminous skirts 

and ride sidesaddle on the crossbar 

and tell me what happened between 1863 and 1931?

I’ll even let you ring the silver bell. 

But if you’re not ready, I can always ask 

Mary Brennan to rise from her long sleep 

beneath the swaying gray beards of Spanish moss

and ride with me along these halls of the dead

so I can listen to her strange laughter 

as some crows flap overhead in the blue 

and the spokes of my wheels catch the dazzling sun.

I've loved walking through cemeteries since I was a kid.  (That should have been a clue that I was going to grow up to be a poet.)  I'm fascinated by the history that can be witnessed through the headstones.  Wars.  Flu epidemics.  Tragic accidents.  Military service.  Long love affairs.  It's all there if you pay attention and read between the birth and death dates.

I'm wondering if there are going to be whole new sections in cemeteries after the Felon in Chief is sworn in for his second term in the Oval Office.  Think about it.  During his first term, because of his mishandling of the COVID-19 pandemic, 1,219,487 people died in the United States.  (If you're a pandemic denier, please move onto another blog.  Might I suggest something maintained by the KKK?)  That's a whole lot of new graves in his first term.

Here comes term number two.

Certainly, more women are going to die because of the overturning of Roe v. Wade and the possible nation-wide abortion ban.  Then there're people of color, LGTBQIA+ people, and poor people--all targets.  Affordable healthcare might be going bye-bye, including the price cap on bottles of insulin.  (Being an insulin-dependent diabetic since I was 13 years old, I know about having to ration insulin because I couldn't afford to buy any.)  I could go on.

Needless to say, cemetery rides might take quite a bit longer once January 20, 2025, rolls around because of the new orange sections.

Saint Marty hopes he's wrong.  Prays that he's wrong.  

October 27: "Hell," Iambic Damnation, Clouds and Stars

I suppose we all have different versions of Hell, because each person harbors a different of punishment.  For example, I can't think of a better way to spend a couple hours than reading a collection of poetry.  For someone else, those 120 minutes would seem like an eternity of iambic damnation.

Billy Collins has his own ideas about damnation . . . 

Hell

by: Billy Collins

I have a feeling that it is much worse
than shopping for a mattress at a mall,

of greater duration without question,
and there is no random pitchforking here,
no licking flames to fear,
only this cavernous store with its maze of bedding.

Yet wandering past the jovial kings,
the more sensible queens,
and the cheerless singles
no scarlet sheet will ever cover,

I am thinking of a passage from the Inferno,
which I could fully bring to mind
and recite in English or even Italian

if the salesman who has been following us--
a crumpled pack of Newports
visible in the pocket of his short sleeve shirt--
would stop insisting for a moment
that we test this one, then this softer one,

which we do by lying down side by side,
arms rigid, figures on a tomb,
powerless to imagine what it would be like

to sleep or love this way
under the punishing rows of fluorescent lights,
which Dante might have included
had he been able to lie on his back between us here today.

Dante starts his descent into the Inferno with these lines:

Midway upon the journey of our life

I found myself within a forest dark,

For the straightforward pathway had been lost.

I am a little past midway on my journey of life, and I frequently feel lost within a forest dark.  Of course, the poet Virgil doesn't make house calls anymore, so I don't have a spirit guide to bring me back to the straight and narrow path.  I just have to keep keep stumbling along until I find my way.

With my wife's emergency surgery on Friday, I have found myself completely exhausted these last couple of days.  All I want to do is grab a pillow and blanket, put an old movie on Netflix, and go to sleep.  I have been able to take one or two naps, but not enough to feel completely restored.

If you're wondering what my version of Hell would look like, you probably can make some educated guesses.  Certainly, it involves sleep deprivation.  Adam Sandler movies 24/7.  Liver and onions for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  The Felon in Chief as President of the United States.  And a distinct lack of poetry (or only poetry written by the Felon in Chief).

I went for a walk this evening after I led an online poetry workshop.  The theme of the workshop was monsters, so we wrote about Bigfoot and Dracula and the Creature from the Black Lagoon.  On my stroll around the block afterward, I felt those monsters pacing me in the dark.  (It didn't help that my neighbors are fully Halloweened up with lights and inflatables and skeletons.)  

But the heavens above Saint Marty were gauzy with clouds and stars.  

September 10: "In the Evening," Need Tos, Loserhood

Another day is coming to a close.  Quietly.

I spent most of today doing computer work.  Not exciting stuff, but necessary.  I got what I think are the last edits of my Bigfoot manuscript done.  I'm hoping to have news I can announce soon from the publisher.  I also tied up some details on a few other projects and started planning some new events.

Now, sitting on my couch, watching Kamala Harris deal with Donald Trump's exaggerations and lies, I'm ready to draw the curtain on today.

Billy Collins relaxes in the evening . . . 

In the Evening

by: Billy Collins

The heads of roses begin to droop.

The bee who has been hauling her gold

all day finds a hexagon in which to rest.

In the sky, traces of clouds,

the last few darting birds,

watercolors on the horizon.

The white car sits facing a wall.

The horse in the field is asleep on its feet.

I light a candle on the wood table.

I take another sip of wine.

I pick up an onion and a knife.

And the past and the future?

Nothing but an only child with two different masks.

Sometimes, as the sun is going down, I take inventory of what I've accomplished during the day.  I'm a list maker.  Every morning, I sit down and meditate on need tos, like tos, and hope tos.  I need to finish this project.  I'd like to get a start on that project.  I hope to plan out those projects.

In the gloaming of dusk, I usually find myself assessing.  No hope to planned.  No like to started.  Only half of my need tos completed.  And, I feel like a failure.  I've had people tell me to narrow the scope of my lists.  One coworker told me to put only three things on my list every morning.  By doing that, this person said, I can avoid the feeling of abject loserhood.  

Today, there were nine things on my to do list, including all the need, like, and hope tos.  I was able to check off almost every item.  After I'm done typing this post, I will have completed everything.  Plus, I get to watch the Felon in Chief be humiliated.

Saint Marty counts this day as a win.

August 28: "Nine Horses," Birthday Wish, QAnon Shaman

I promised you something silly tonight because my last few posts have been a little heavy.  So let me talk about what I want for my birthday this year after Billy Collins tells us about his birthday present . . .

Nine Horses

by: Billy Collins

For my birthday, 

my wife gave me nine horse heads, 

ghostly photographs on squares of black marble, 

nine squares set in one large square, 

a thing so heavy that the artist himself 

volunteered to hang it 

from a wood beam against a white stone wall. 

Pale heads of horses in profile 

as if a flashcube had caught them walking in the night. 

Pale horse heads 

that overlook my reading chair, 

the eyes so hollow they must be weeping, 

the mouths so agape they could be dead— 

the photographer standing over them 

on a floor of straw, his black car parked by the stable door. 

Nine white horses, 

or one horse the camera has multiplied by nine. 

It hardly matters, such sadness is gathered here

in their long white faces 

so far from the pasture and the cube of sugar— 

the face of St. Bartholomew, the face of St. Agnes, 

Odd team of horses, 

pulling nothing, 

look down on these daily proceedings. 

Look down upon this table and these glasses, 

the furled napkins,

the evening wedding of the knife and fork. 

Look down like a nine-headed god 

and give us a sign of your displeasure 

or your gentle forbearance 

so that we may rejoice in the error of our ways. 

Look down on this ring 

of candles flickering under your pale heads. 

Let your suffering eyes 

and your anonymous deaths 

be the bridle that keeps us from straying from each other 

be the cinch that fastens us to the belly of each day 

as it gallops away, hooves sparking into the night.

I have a neighbor down the street who has been flying Trump flags and displaying Trump signs since 2016.  He just recently added some Trump/Vance merchandise to his collection.  That's eight years, folks.  Eight years of seeing that name every morning and every night--through the pandemic, January 6th insurrection, entire Biden administration, and all the convictions the Felon in Chief has collected so far.  

My birthday wish is pretty simple:  I want my neighborhood Trump Super Store to shut down.  I'm tired of being reminded all the time of the misogyny, homophobia, xenophobia, and ignorance that exists in the world.  

I know that it doesn't matter what the outcome of this year's election is--I'm stuck with the QAnon Shaman living down the street.  It's an infection that just isn't going to go away.

But Saint Marty can dream, can't he?