Art for the Times We’re In

I Know What I Did This Summer A Poem for Your Screaming, Frustrated...

Art for the Times We’re In

It’s January 2025, and the year has already started off rough. Bitterly cold, more snow than we probably need, and a certain person is now president of the United States. Again. Also, one of my favorite authors turns out to be a horrible, horrible person. The allegations against him were made public last summer, and I was horrified by his behavior then, but a new article this month painted an even more horrifying picture of what happened to his victims. And his response to the allegations was basically a non-response with zero actual regret for the women he victimized. (I will not be naming names. Based on some of my art and one particular cosplay that I love, you can probably guess who I’m talking about.)

I’ve been in such grief and rage over it all, I wrote a poem about it, because sometimes, that’s how I have to process things. Also, when there’s so much garbage in the world, it’s best to counteract it with something beautiful, even if it’s grief-stricken, too.

A poem in a black, Arial-type font against a gray background:This sheep’s eyes are clear nowYou wormed your way into our thoughts,Inspired with your pretty words,Enthralled with your honeyed tongue.You wormed your way into our lives,But I don’t think worm is bad enoughFor you, because the gentle earthwormIs far more useful, converting decaying matterInto fertile soil, helping life extend and abound.The rot you’ve left in your wake is nothingBut a stench even flies won’t touch.There are those who would name youWolf in Sheep’s Clothing, but I’d neverDenigrate that sharp-eyed, majestic predator.You were never as noble as the wolf,Who uses its talents for its community,

The poem continues:Preying only for their survival, and notFor the greedy gratification you demandFrom those you prey upon yourself.You wore the guise of a meek and mildLamb, someone who could never hurtA fly. Oh no! Not me! How could IPossibly have done some ofThe things they said I did? But the soft muzzle has been stripped away,The lambskin ripped to shreds.You’re nothing but a broken man who,In your brokenness, delights (or not)In breaking those you deem beneath you.Your voice is salt poured on an open wound,Your words, the muck at the bottomOf a polluted lake. The only inspirationYou could gift me now is this poem.I hope the world ends up eating you alive.

I don’t have much else to say. It’s a new year. We have a new, terrifying administration governing our country. The next four years are going to be rough for many. I’m trying to focus on my family, friends, and community and doing the work locally where I can. And I’m trying to find joy and beauty where I can to keep life bearable and survivable.

I hope wherever you are, you are safe and warm and surrounded by beauty that brings you joy.

Speaking of making art, here are some sketches I’ve done recently that I’m particularly proud of.