There are thirty-nine pincushions. When I first started in 2016, it was fun to make them. Try to capture their essence and what made them so despicable. Stick pins in them. Then stuff them tightly in a plastic bag with little to no air for them.
Back then it was their new leader, Trump, Mitch McConnell, Kelly Anne with her “alternate facts”, and Bill Barr shoving their words toward a possible legal truth. Combine it all with the endless lies of Fox “News” to an angry, bigoted population, and it festered to the surface for a second chance to expose our weaknesses.
All of them have a red dot…the mark of “being sold”. And sold is what each of them have been. Sold souls to the highest and most corrupt bidders.
Even Stephen Miller with his fascist tendencies could resurrect himself in this new administration to direct an expulsion of necessary population willing to carry the heavy load for all of us. More and more sycophants pushed their way into view to be willing to pick up the fight for fellow bigots. They came armed and ready.
They fight for the positions of most obnoxious, most “Christian”, most willing to tell lies, most willing to be bought, etc.
Each and everyone of them are headed to the garbage of American history…and so well-deserved for ruining what our country used to be.
So many wanted to see the justice system come to the rescue. But that seems beyond their ability with the stacked and paid for courts we find ourselves stuck with for the foreseeable future. Long after I have left this world.
Before he goes, he will hang his red tie medals around the necks of most deserving of pincushion personas, but frankly, my stomach can take no more.
I am not sure if where we are is what the MAGAs of our time wanted us to be. But here we are. There are over three more years left to take this country further down and then it will be more of their uncontrolled anger continuing or a very slow healing process. Some other country will have to take over for the leadership we so willingly gave up. Obviously we are incapable.
But the sun will still come up.
I will pour myself a nice stiff drink for my solo exhibition later today and wish I lived in better times or a better country.
Til later….but first a poem of comfort….
The Shirt S. Webster
It hangs there, just waiting
for me to reach out, and remember
the times it held me close.
When no one else was giving
needed comfort
and wanted touch.
I pause long enough
to run my hand down the arm
and hold its hand,
before moving on to one that
has no history.