“May you live in interesting times.”

Once again I’m reminded of just how sublime this little curse can be.

It’s exhausting to live under federal occupation. My beloved Twin Cities has spent enough time in the headlines — while the rest of my life would be fine with me. But I have to say, watching how Minnesotans have shown up this weekend, I’m proud of us. For the most part the protests have been peaceful. We are bearing witness, documenting what’s happening, trying to protect neighbors. When there have been clashes, by and large it’s been federal agents provoking it. They’re out there spraying chemicals, surrounding and beating protesters, detaining people in ways that raise real civil liberties concerns. They’re ignoring court orders about free speech, abusing their power, trampling constitutional rights. And, to the credit of people out on the streets with their phones and whistles, Minnesotans are saying “this is not okay.”

Let’s be honest. I’m privileged to live in a suburb. A mostly white, relatively affluent suburb. I haven’t seen many of the SUVs or agents in their tactical gear. And I certainly haven’t been out protesting. I’m way too risk‑averse for that.

My daughter lives just six miles away. Her neighborhood has a high immigrant population. There’s a large Somali and Hispanic community. She’s seen the SUVs and the guys in military hardware cosplaying heroes. My daughter isn’t white, which means she’s a potential — albeit low‑priority — target for profiling. She also wasn’t born in the United States, which elevates her risk. She (all of us, actually) are carrying passports with us at all times. I’ve always wondered when the “show us your papers” era in America would happen. 2026 seems to be that moment.

But at the same time, I can’t help but wonder what’s a proper way to register my outrage with what’s happening in my city, in my country. How do I go out to a meal knowing that behind the counter, in the kitchen, are honest, hardworking people who are at risk of being detained or assaulted because a bunch of imported agents have been trained to view certain communities with suspicion. I wish this was just hyperbole, that I was overreacting, but I’m not. And here we are.

During the Holocaust, the biggest question for sociologists and historians has been how the everyday person saw what was going on and at worst supported and enabled it, or at best enabled it by staying silent.

I’m reminded of a quote by Holocaust survivor and partisan Abba Kovner:

“It was not Hitler or Goebbels who killed us. It was the baker, the shopkeeper, and the neighbor who, when they put on the uniform, forgot who we were.”

Primo Levi, in The Drowned and the Saved, wrote that during these times the “monsters” were few, but the “functionaries,” the ordinary people who enabled by believing, by ignoring the truth, and by not questioning, were the real danger.

I’m glad that Minnesotans, to a larger extent than even I would have thought, have decided not to enable.

Next Friday, January 23, a general strike has been called in Minnesota. The AFL‑CIO has endorsed this action, taking it from a fringe idea to a significant event of resistance. And it’s going to be –20 degrees. For those keeping score, this isn’t new territory for Minneapolis. In 1934, Teamsters shut down the city in one of the most significant labor actions in American history. They fought the National Guard in the streets. Two strikers died on “Bloody Friday.” And they won. That’s the tradition we’re drawing on — ordinary people deciding that some things are worth standing up for, even when it’s dangerous.

This strike might bring another 1,500 troops from Alaska to support the 3,000 ICE and Border Patrol agents already imported to try to control the situation. Many Minnesotans see this as an attempt to suppress dissent and punish Tim Walz for criticizing the President and his administration. I’ll be watching very closely to see how this plays out. And to all of you out‑of‑state readers, thank you for your concerns so far. Stay tuned — we have a long way to go here in the Frozen North.

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The Failure of Words

When words fail
When talking isn’t enough
When circumstances are crushing
And the sun is hard to find

What words come to mind
That aren’t angry and raw
When events drive reason
Out of my mind

What comes rushing in it’s place
Is anger, fear and hate
A tightening in my chest
An aching in my head

The immigrants who surround me
In every generation
My mother, my daughter, my family
From foreign destinations

It is a taut steel thread
That binds me to my city
Attacked and battered in vengeance
By agents hiding behind manufactured immunity

Which random stop will it be I wonder
Will profile my baby girl
Which group of masked men on the street
Bedecked in masks, and tools of war

What words does a father offer in these times
Carry your passport, go straight to work
Be brave and tell them “CITIZEN”
Begging you to be cautious and not afraid

The transition came faster than I thought
Can’t happen here
Can it happen to here
Now here we are

Like Atlas carrying the sky on his shoulders
I seek the sun of a shattered inner strength
To prepare my people for what may never happen
Until the day it does

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New Year Literary Upchuck

As someone once said, and it’s profoundly applicable to moi

What ever is wrong with you, is a big deal.”

I’ve been thinking about writing an update to check in for the new year.

I was off between December 26 and January 2. I had planned a year in review piece December 28.

Or December 29.

And I started it on December 30.
But I didn’t like it, so that got pushed to December 31.

New Years Day. Got nothing going on, a great day for writing.

But the reality is, the computer and desk are in the basement, the coffee and good TV are upstairs and I somehow got sucked into three college football games and the blog… well she got left unattended.

Again.

But I was off January 2. Perfect day to spend some time writing.

One of my holiday highlights this year was taking Mrs S, Mrs S Jr and company, and driving to the airport for the annual holiday trip to Incline Village.

The fun part of this years trip was after I dropped them off, I drove home. Due to mental instability driven by the winter witch that is the NRF Big Show, my annual 40K strong version of the Bataan Death March, I stayed home. Too many panic attacks, grumpy attitude and all around malaise got me a pass from the Mrs S, one that I was delighted to take.

Home, alone, for eight glorious days.

The possibilities were almost endless.

So, what’d’ya do, you ask?

Game of Thrones has been on my “to watch” list for years. I hadn’t seen a single episode up until Tuesday, December 23.

I tell you because I’m not proud, or I don’t think I’m proud, well since I’m couching it, I guess I’m going to lean into “not proud” to say that by January 2, or eight days later, I was ready to start Game Of Thrones, season seven.

Binge much? Or as Mrs S would say, 60 hours of TV in seven days? Did you have to shave the roots growing out of your ass?

Don’t fck’n judge here. I did serve food on Christmas Eve at a homeless shelter in my beloved St. Paul. So I got that going for me.

But ya, that’s bedsore territory.

Quick aside, I need to pause and thank y’all for hanging with me here, it was January 2 and I was ready to write.

But if you know GOT, you know that a the end of Season Six the youngest Stark girl who went from frightened little girl to full on, cold blooded assassin, quietly and effortless slits the throat of the dude who two seasons ago wiped out her entire family. And she does this after serving him a meat pie made of his sons, who also, had it coming. Glorious closure if you ask me.

But it left a bit of a loose end in that, I wanted to know what happened to her.

That’s why I started watching season seven, but just one episode I told myself, so I could move on.

But there she was, at a banquet for the entire clan of the bad guys, wearing his face, (there’s some magic involved just let it go for now) and using his voice. No one in the crowd knew the truth about her. Then, she (as he) raises a glass and asks all assembled to toast the recent demise of her family. All but this one girl next to her- she slaps her hand like the soup Nazi, and tells her “no wine for you” , So this little Cindy Lou Who of the evil clan, has to watch everyone drink. Then she gets to watch as they all gag, spit, choke and die. Beautiful. A very satisfying ending to a shitty bunch of people by mass poisoning. “And I saved you” she tells the girl “so you can tell the world that it was a Stark who ended his house.”

So, writing on January 2 didn’t happen. By January 3rd I was deep into Season Seven and the unproductive spiral was complete.

But, the good news, at least for me, is that I’ve found another creative vein to drain- conversations in my head. The ADD mind is more fun than a barrel of monkeys and just as wild. I started writing some of my thought processes down and I realized I’m not the only crazy person here. I bet every person my age, at some point has had a what used to be a mundane trip to the bathroom turn into a diagnostic experience that you didn’t expect or want.

Dudes my age, who hasn’t looked in the mirror at least once and thought “fuck me, I’m my father.” Not in the Luke Skywalker way either.

So I’ve been writing up stories along those lines. And all of a sudden I’ve created a new genre. Not quite poetry, not quite narrative and not quite a journaling exercise. Nope it’s prose of some sort,I just don’t know what.

So.. Imma gonna share some of that stuff here in the next few weeks. And keep with the poetry and maybe change the name of this space to “The Dogs Breakfast” ‘cause that’s it is. Literary upchuck- where I eat the world around me, and throw it back up to see how it digests.

Better than the other option- reporting on how it was processed through my colon. That’s what everyone else does.

Be well all, I’m writing with gas now.

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Time Through Smoke and Fog

I remember my father, coming home from work
In his 75 Coupe d’Ville
The chrome plated curb-feelers like a catfishes whiskers
Scratching along the curb

We felt our way through the tule fog
On damp Stockton winter morning
In pampered leather silence I floated along
As Dad gunned it through the turn

My eyes were glued to that Cadillac hood ornament
Across the hood, a mile of metallic gold
Shining headlight indicators through the mist
An analog guidance system to guide our way

I remember my mother, in her Laura Petrie leggings
With the lung dart hanging from her mouth
The bone tempered shade of white
Lit up in the harsh fluorescent light

She talks on the dial up kitchen extension
Gripping the handset in the nape of her neck
Pulling at the knotted cord tethered to the wall
Reaching for just more inch of leash

In the hall the giant console stereo plays
From hifi components sealed in a ton of oak
The music fills the house
With Como, Campbell, Diamond and John

Slide open the top and let loose the glow
Electric light in vintage green
The round metal dials and crisp metallic toggles
A wonder for ten year old me.

Slowly turning the tuner dial up and down
Like Uhura at her console
Finding the exact frequency
KZAP, from Sacramento, AOR ecstasy

In the den we gathered to watch TV
A 25” CRT in glorious black and white
An occasional slap on the side to bring back the picture
Of Bette Vasquez and Stan Atkinson, our news guides

Our hearth of brick that was painted black
Framed by paneling of deep brown wood
Just an illusion of a architectural legacy
Belying our tract home’s actual birth

But that cheap faux facade
Filled the house with warmth
A Duraflame burning in the hearth
No tule fog could penetrate the glow

That was half a century ago,
And now the fog is replaced by snow
My suburban street is Minnesota
My windows have a different glow

My recall, it seems is hazy these days
I wonder where that console went
Memories like an image on 120mm film
Softened across time and mist

Now my family gathers at our hearth
Their minds creating images new
What things that seem timeless in my house today
Will be my kids nostalgic wooden fork and spoon

Mom and dad have passed
My parents shadows, dim but not quite gone
They live on in my minds eye
In the place where my kids will one day find me

In memories of smoke and fog

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Old and In They Way- Holiday Edition

The season again: holidays, candles, solstice, and my good friend Covid. I think this is the fifth or sixth year in a row where that dreaded little line has appeared on my annual holiday Covid test. At this point I’m feeling a certain kinship with Typhoid Mary.

Good news, dear people — it’s a very mild case and resolved quickly. The exhaustion, however, was not helped by driving Mrs. S and Mrs. S Jr. to the airport at 3:00 AM. Or “last night,” depending on your personal philosophy of time.

I’m skipping the family compound this year. I told Mrs. S, “I usually get Covid during the holidays,” and she agreed that for everyone’s happiness, the grumpy old man should remain in his natural habitat: the basement.

Which is where you find me now. Yay me.

I blame Florida. I was there last week. Flew home Sunday. Scratchy throat by Wednesday. Blech by Friday. Apparently the new Floridian souvenir is an infectious disease. Honestly, Covid might be the best thing you can bring back from the Sunshine State.


Speaking of my march toward dotage…

I’ve got Sirius Satellite Radio in the car now. Two hundred stations. This has resulted in a lot of inattentive driving as I scroll through them like a man searching for meaning. And since most Sirius listeners are my age or older, about 150 of those stations are what we used to call “oldies.”

Which is how I ended up on The Bridge — a mellow rock station for people who remember when gas was 89 cents and their knees didn’t hurt.

Mrs. S calls it “the bridge to the afterlife,” because she assumes most of the listeners are close to crossing that rainbow.

There’s also a classic LP station. I like that one. I’m hearing songs I haven’t heard since the mid‑70s. Good lord — I’ve become the “don’t become your parents” commercial. I’m basically listening to the soundtrack of the old folks home I’ll be incarcerated in someday. I look forward to hearing Black Sabbath while I sit in a wheelchair in the hallway.

And speaking of the glamorous future awaiting me in that hallway: I just hope my eventual home is well‑stocked with the hottest gift of 2025 — Brazilian Bum Bum Cream. If I’m going to spend my final years in a breezy hospital gown, I want my backside to be my best side. Bum Bum Cream — marketing genius. No more bag of pizza dough where my behinder used to be. Firm, tight, and smooth as a West Point cadet’s blanket.

Actual big news

One of my goals this year was to complete a manuscript. I did it. About 250 pages when printed. The working title is:

“The Application of GeoSpatial Technology in Retail Loss Prevention Organizations.”

Look out, John Grisham — I’m coming for you.

Mrs. S asked if this would fund our retirement. Sales forecasts are currently pushing double digits. Maybe high teens once word gets out. Of course, the company is giving it away for free, so… keep digging salt, Sank.

And the poetry

I’ve got a number of new poems in the can. Poetry is fun, but it’s hard. And when you go back and read your stuff, a guy could get depressed about how rough it looks in retrospect. But you keep at it. You hone. You try.

And sometimes, instead of poetry, you just write humorous reflections like this.

You’re welcome.

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Quiet Together

We watch the snow fall she and I
As it fills the empty spaces between
The ground and the trees
As gently the flakes land
tickling my nose
And insulating the earth
Creating a quiet blanket
In silence

We hear the rustle she and I
Of pine trees breathing overhead
When the winter wind sighs
and an icy caress stings the cheek
Fresh newborn air
That freezes nostrils and eyelashes
A siren calling us
Cleansing our souls

We sit together she and I
Holding our mittened hands
Quiet in our scarves and hats and winter coats
Wispy clouds of breath escaping our mufflers
We are warm and we are content
Alone together
Purified in winter
Bound as one

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What is a Poem?

Like those infants’ shoes that were never used
The master’s famed short-form novel
Connecting to our own emotions
Efficiency in execution

Great poets weave connections
By stripping away the fluff
They invite us to bring our own emotions
As partners in their literary creation

A poem is an empty structure
A framework standing ready
Breathing on the page it lays in wait
With empty spaces in elocution

The poet is our thoughtful guide
By deliberate and careful choices
Leaving it to the reader’s personal experiences
To give their words rich animation

No poet can create the same work twice.
No reader has the same experience rereading
We aren’t the same person ever again
Nor can emotions be repeated

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Thanks for Giving

It’s Thanksgiving, I have time today. So my Black Friday Contribution is a bogo offer. Two posts in one day. Not sure it’s worth busting a door for, but I’m immensely thankful for getting inspired to write for fun again. As always, thanks for reading


Thanks for Giving

Thanksgiving has always been
My favorite holiday

My favorite time of the year
It lacks pretense or obligations

It simply exists
To create space for pause

To connect with people
To share and laugh

And gather around festive board
And just be

And while the food may suck
Boring and bland

There I said it
Moving on

And the discussion may drift
To topics no one wanted

We are together
As best we can be

Being thankful for the day
Is thanksgiving enough

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Season’s Senses

Forest glory
Red gold
Wind rushing
Earthy musk
Leaves crunch
Redolent flavors
Nature transitions

Forest bare
Unbroken snow
Quiet cold
Crisp Pine
Snowflakes sting
Warming spices
Nature sleeping

Forest reborn
Ice melting
Birdsong music
Floral essence
Soft warmth
Sweet fruit
Nature emerges

Forest breathes
Green explodes
Cicadas buzz
Rains aroma
Sweating glasses
Cool sips
Nature bath


I’m still pretty new to poetry. I’ve always been told my writing gets verbose, so I started playing with two-word lines to force myself to cut to the bone—say only what actually matters.

I built this poem on a scaffold: each season gets seven lines following the same pattern. Open with the forest’s state, move through the five senses in order, close with where the forest fits in nature’s bigger cycle. The structure wasn’t restrictive—it actually helped me figure out what each season really feels like.

Two-word lines are teaching me something about weight and pause. There’s no room for all my usual explanatory clauses. Just: “Leaves crunch. Redolent flavors. Nature’s transition.”

Turns out economy isn’t about saying less. It’s about making what you keep count more.

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Resiliance’s Debate

Broken bricks
Smashed cedars
Shattered altar


Smoldering ruins
High Priest
Lineage destroyed


Empire imposed
Centurion’s fist
Jupiter’s victory


Rabbans walk
Tumbled walls
Defiled sanctuary


Redemptions renewal
Prophetic laughter
Scholars pilpul


Yavnah’s scholars
Spiritual renewal
Covenant endures


Authors note

A Talmudic story tells of Rabbis Yochanan ben Zakkai and Akiva standing before the ruined Temple. While others wept, Akiva laughed—seeing in the fulfillment of prophecies of destruction the proof that prophecies of redemption would also come true. Yochanan took a different path: he escaped Jerusalem to establish the academy at Yavneh, transforming Judaism from a faith based on animal sacrifice and a priestly class to Torah study, repairing the world and pilpul (rabbinic debate).

The photograph is Robinson’s Arch on the Western Wall in Jerusalem. It is a remnant of the actual Second Temple stones these rabbis walked through. These massive blocks once supported the grand stairway to the Temple Mount.

This poem uses minimalist two-word sentences to capture that pivotal moment when catastrophe sparked two forms of resilience: prophetic faith and scholarly institution-building. Both responses became essential to Jewish continuity.

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