I have no idea what is happening – it’s like throwing pennies off a bridge. I just can’t get comfortable – it seems like the only thing that connects my life and art together is pain – it’s painful when I put them together – and more painful when I pull them apart. In 2007 I quit straddling the pain, quit my job, and moved to a rural studio in New York State. I work on creative projects, work on my life, and work on the day-to-day necessities of existence. No cell phone, no social media, no networking. But as I work on the books displayed on this author’s page; I feel another kind of pain — the pain of not working on something else: my printmaking and drawing are being neglected, my poetry output is a dripping faucet, and it looks like I’ll be telling NYFA that the Idea Enhancement Project just added another year to its timeline. When I read what I’ve just written; it’s as true as anything I can think of — but then so is the opposite: I need to process everything that happens . . .
September 8, 2021
I have always felt this poem to be so on target that I pinned a doodle on it and let fly with an arrow of my own.
Today’s industrial agriculture has championed the concept of acceptable amounts of pollution and used “naturally occurring” as a smoke screen to misrepresent the real dangers of their actions.
One agricultural college professor I spoke with recently took the position that the sickness and death of rural families is a small and necessary price to ensure that industrial farming has ability to feed the hungry around the world.
His ivory tower must have a dungeon.