Card of the Day: Ace of Pentacles… Currently Listening: Viagra Boys, “Medicine For Horses” and Wednesday, “Elderberry Wine”

Very foreboding: Yesterday I got into my car after the gym, which had streamed the President’s grotesque press conference about storming a foreign nation and kidnapping its leader in the dark of night, and on the radio Jimi Hendrix’s “All Along The Watchtower” blasted… I screamed and slapped the volume button to turn it off. What horrendous vibes! And only three days into this year! Visions of last year and seeing flames rise up from California… Of 2021 and watching the chaos at the Capitol… Of 2020 and catching the first hints of COVID… Life does not suffer those who hope for a new start in the new year. It moves forward, as must we.

But hell, a war for oil? In 2026? I remember the last time we went to war for oil, and it was before I knew anything beyond “War bad!” I like to think I’ve had leftist tendencies all my life, and that they’ve only grown stronger as I’ve grown older. So to all those who say “You’ll grow more conservative as you get older”, sure, maybe I’ll sock some extra in my savings, but otherwise, I’m gonna be your pinko commie nightmare.

I still hold out hope that we will find enlightenment in 2026 with regard to our choices, through our own self-reflection or by force. Not saying that I want anything rash to happen, but at the rate our own government’s going, they’ll invite some nonsense to occur which will cause them to manufacture consent for more violence, and at a certain point something will have to give. We’re in for a reckoning, folks, and I sure hope we don’t have to wait long, because I’d like for us to get over this petulant and stupid era of our lives already.

But again: We press on. On my baseball Discord – the only social media that feels good these days – the jokers are talking about how baseball either has or does not have luck. I am firmly on the side of luck. Every sport has luck. Every second we are alive is a lucky second, despite any evidence to the contrary. Life consists of a battle to turn the odds in our favor, when they continue to stack themselves against us and show great fortitude when we try to beat them. But nothing remains impossible. It may seem fruitless for a team of underpowered rookies to beat the repeat World Series champions in the league championship, or for the team of rowdy green adventurers to slay the dragon in the cave just beyond the abandoned village, but certainly neither are futile. Hope prevails. Ya gotta believe.

In any case, I will leave this here for now. The Patriots are going for the #1 seed this afternoon, and while I don’t doubt they can beat the Dolphins on home turf in ice-cold weather, luck cares not for whom it grants its charm. Be well.

Card of the Day: Five of Wands, reversed
Currently Listening To: Emperor X, “Schopenhauer in Berlin”

Welcome to a new year, folks. I have neglected this blog yet again, and instead of starting a new one, I’m deciding to pay more attention here. I’m paying for the hosting, after all. I might as well use it.

I had thought about reviving an old brand, Socrates’ Closet, but then I figured: Let sleeping dogs lie. I used that name on Tumblr for many years, and while it remains near and dear to my heart, I’ve grown past that stage of my life. If I write something, I am going to put it under my name and face the consequences. (As if anything I write is so edgy. I have never been an edgelord and my previous attempts at trolling in my younger years made me a laughingstock.)

But anyway, here we are at the start of 2026, licking our wounds from the previous year while we practice writing the new number on our checks. My wife Becca and I gave cookies to our next-door neighbors who are our landlords. We have never been so kind to landlords before, but these guys have been quality so far. In our few months of living in our current abode, they have fixed our sagging front porch, repaid us for the paint supplies we bought, salted our walkway, and ensured we knew about street parking restrictions. Previous landlords either went AWOL, took months to make repairs, or chewed us out for the slightest issue (which was 99 percent of the time not our fault.) I know it goes against my usual left-leaning politics, but I don’t mind these landlords. We’ll have to see if I still carry that sentiment when the new lease comes up for discussion.

I look back on what fulfilled me in 2025, and I see my creative output: Two albums, an EP, and a thick handful of poems which I shared with friends and other captive audiences. I see new and reinforced connections. I see new observances of love and kinship, methods of expression, streaks of confidence. And while last year kicked my ass with other personal matters, I feel good knowing I am not alone: The two-thousand-and-twenty-fifth year after the birth of Jesus H. Christ kicked everyone’s ass.

But I am glad I ended the year with a long stretch of rest and relaxation. I sat and watched all of Heated Rivalry with Becca, caught up on quite a bit of sleep, grabbed drinks and shot the shit with a fellow poetry patron, and began to form the building blocks of what I hope will amount to another productive year. Meanwhile, I realized that the old forms of filling my dopamine receptors – the social media apps – don’t do it for me anymore, and although I will continue to post on this blog and utilize them to stay connected to the people and communities I hold dear, I will no longer succumb to the endless scroll. I know I say that all the time, and I often fail, but I must commit to it in 2026. I can not give my time to these platforms when they do not serve me.

So what serves me now? Reading poetry, especially from local artists, with some of whom I’ve shared a stage. Finding new music through recommendations or going to solid sites instead of relying on the streaming platforms to spoon-feed me. Long-form writing that hits the cerebral cortex, instead of just focusing on the headlines and headaches in the comments from people who only read the headlines. And perhaps collaboration with creative colleagues, creating something beautiful with other people instead of limiting myself to just myself. I have always been too protective of my work and myself, and I think such guardedness remains important in these dangerous times. But I am putting importance in finding the right people with whom I can hash out ideas and from whom I can learn.

And of course, long walks, even if I take them on a treadmill. You could not catch me dead to rights hustling my ass outside in this teeth-chattering New England winter, but I’ll spend an hour at the gym vibing to my antifascist punk playlist on a 3.5 percent incline at a leisurely pace.

Anyway, I am running out of steam for this post. I hope you’re well. Thank you to the many people at the Boston Poetry Slam for your inspiration, and to Robert for reminding me that this blog exists. How are you, Rob? I know I said I wasn’t going to use my social media apps much more, but I will check in to see what kind of cocktails you’re stirring up. If you and Joe are in the area, don’t be a stranger.

Last night I watched as a man younger than me stood before New Yorkers and gave his vision for a brighter tomorrow. I now know what the oldheads felt like in 2008 watching Barack Obama talk. Never mind that Zohran Mamdani was born just six months after me. My body received a shot of hope meant for a wide-eyed college student on Election Night. My withered thirty-something heart simply cannot take that dosage.

I realize I use many words to explain what I could state in few. And so I shall reduce my words down to the essentials. If I can. I have also learned that I tend to go on tangents. No more. Stick to the message. If a post goes over 500 words it is too long. Eyes on the prize.

Massive blue wave wins across the US last night and Guy Fawkes Day being today is going to make one group of people clinically libbed up and one group of people have pearl-clutching panic attacks. I belong in the former camp, and let me tell you, it’s a rush. My head hurts.

Despite the great victories of the Democratic Party, and especially the Democratic Socialists of America, the work remains. Yes, we can celebrate our Ws. But there are many wins left for us, and we cannot lose momentum now, or else we’ll never reach them. Again, eyes on the prize.

And what is the prize? An American Dream everyone can achieve? A good, safe, quiet life for every person on Earth, where bigotry and genocide do not stand? A society where no one must make the choice between keeping a roof over their head, having a hot meal, or being able to take the bus to an underpaying job? All of the above?

Yes. A better world is possible. Every day could be the first day of a better nation. There is no benefit in defeatism to powers that would rather see everything burn while they hide in their fire-proof bunkers.

I certainly have not felt like this in a long time. But again, I know that this feeling is contagious and addictive. It is so easy to get hooked on it, to let it distract from the work, to let it blind me to the real issues that need addressing. At a certain point I will have to splash some water on my face, come down from the clouds, and say, “Okay. What’s next?”

What an evening. What a year. Eleven months of fascist and anarcho-capitalist nonsense really do make the slimmest glimmer of hope feel like two thousand volts directly to the rib cage. I am too old to not have slept last night. I am sucking coffee down like a demon.

The people who lost hard last night are already preparing themselves for the midterms. They are already working on ways to destroy what little joy we gained. Let’s not let them. Turn the volume up.

I set out to write a blog post. Every single time I do this I fail. I get to the first sentence, maybe. Then I delete the whole thing. I delete the website. I delete the browsers from my computer. I throw the computer out the window. I rebuke all technology and put my necessary belongings in a small knapsack. I walk to the river and set up my camp there. I look to the stars. I ask them for guidance. They give none. I drink the water from my hands. I get cholera or something. I wake up in a hospital three months later where a doctor tells me they have cured my disease. I throw the doctor out the window.

Anyway, we have reached the era of Will Sisskind where unhinged nonsense knows no bounds. I used to try to sound smart. I used to want to be taken somewhat seriously. But by God and every god and devil, why? We live in a nonsense world. I hate to sound cynical. I hate to sound nihilistic. I am neither. I believe in hope and that a new and better world is possible. But why stick to the ways that have always been, especially in an era where they do not work? Nazis have infiltrated government. Everyday folks go hungry while their elected government spends their tax money on lavish parties and ballrooms.

I can’t write about these things. My brain shuts down. I hit a wall.

Because I’m not wired to think like this. No human is and no human should be. We were born to live off the land, to tend to it, to not milk it of all its resources for minuscule financial gain and the indentured servitude of all mankind. We were born to live together on this land, not to fight and shed each other’s blood across it. We were born to adapt to this land’s strange whimsy, not try and control it, and certainly not to cause its climate to go off the rails.

And yet, people have found countless mind-boggling ways to be very stupid. I have certainly acted stupid in my life. But I like to think I have learned from my mistakes. So many people have not. And those folks would rather double down on their stupidity and land themselves in scalding hot water than take accountability for their accounts. Those folks would rather let their errors cause people to die because they’re too insecure and afraid to look weak, and they will never apologize or take the blame. They will always frame themselves in the passive tense, because they are passive people, because everything that has propped them into a position of power is due to passive income. They are weak whether they like it or not.

This kind of attitude, this kind of economy, this way of living cannot stand.

What is the point of the article, Will? This is what you ask. I don’t know. Again, I stopped trying to frame my thoughts into anything coherent a while ago. I could run this through ChatGPT and tell it to make me sound smart and well-rehearsed and organized, but do I want to waste gallons of water on that? Do I want to ruin my mental elasticity? Do I want to become a drooling husk of bone while a computer somewhere in a burnt-out Virginia forest does all the thinking for me? No, no, and no. I would rather scoop out the interior of my scrotum with a sewing needle. Employers, if you just read that sentence, just know you’re getting a creative mind over here. You didn’t think anyone would say that sentence, did you? Big brain. Galaxy brain, as the kids say. Six-seven.

Fact is: I’m done shutting up, and I’m done trying to appease folks, and I’m done trying to make myself sound like a watered-down version of what I am. Sure, that just adds to the noise. Sure, that just means one more dumbass white man adding his unnecessary opinion to the slurry of shit that fills the Internet like a New York City sewer after a monsoon. But I have always regretted not yelling about something when I need to yell about it, because that thought then festers in my brain and eats away at the top layer of it like a termite, and then the structure of my skull caves in and my head hits the edge of my desk and cracks, and the goo leaks everywhere on my office’s hardwood floor and makes a big damn mess. And then my wife has to come home and see that. Do you want my wife to have to see blue brain goop? Do you want to question why it’s blue? No and no. I know it’s not blue, but blue is my favorite color and I like to think my head is full of that. So there.

This is the end of the post.