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Three Fish Dharma

Friend, Chris Cavanaugh and I were having an online discussion of graphic symbols and I had just printed three rabbits joined by three ears. And he asked about three fishes with one head. I was only vaguely aware of this symbol. I knew it was old but I didn’t know the origin story.

Turns out it is very old and of very different origins, all in the old world. But in the 1960s, Allen Ginsberg adopted the three fish/one head symbol as referring to him. Kind of like a logo, or symbol of him and his art. Cool.

SO, I carved it in wood once and printed. I didn’t like the design. Almost a copy of an image of an ancient clay vessel. So I tried to tweak the plate about three times. I finally gave up. I could not get the print right on the wood block.

I reduced its size, carved it in lino, took out this figure of an old Asian building, replaced it with a representation of a lotus flower, moved the double yin/yang symbols. Added 12 ordinals and a little twist to the outer circle. And removed any sign of the ancient vessel.

Printed one color and hand painted the dots and eye. There are actually two versions. One with yellow and the actual run with orange. Only 9 copies of this run.

After printing, I added my printer’s “chop.” That, too, is like a logo for a print maker.

I put one on the wall. I sent another to Chris Cavanaugh, the muse on this project and one more to a Ginsberg fan who has taught me more than one thing in life. Six left if you are interested.

In affecdtion for the state of Dharma and a tribute to Allen Ginsberg
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The Chicken Emporium

You don’t know my neighbor (we call him Mr. Tony) but he is a fine specimen of humanity. Long have I tried to find a way to thank him for being helpful, kind, humble and an excellent neighbor.

Recently, he has begun a project of passion. He owns a dozen or so chickens. They bring great joy to him, his wife and his mother-in-law who lives with them. But this chicken coop project started to take on the appearance of an artistic fugue. Shed after shed began to emerge in his back yard. And I stood there in awe and wonder to watch it emerge, grow, evolve.

And in a flash, I know how to say thank you to Mr. Tony. So, for about a week, I photographed, drew, carved, started over but finally, my own opus to his project.

I present “Mr. Tony’s Eggsellent Chicken Emporium: Your Eggs for Nothing & Your Chicks for Free” 2026.

And just so you know it is a real rendering and not an artistic imagining:

MR. TONY, glad you are my friend.

Memoir, Music Review, Poetry, Print

Proof

I am an old man now.
My hands know the weight
of small blades,
how pressure must be patient
and come from the elbow
or the line collapses.

Once,
I was a poet
before I knew what that meant.
I loved a woman
I never touched.
Her voice reached me first,
raw as a whiskey throat,
and I believed—
because I was young—
that wanting was the same as knowing.
I paid five dollars
to sit close enough
to see sweat gather
where the lights made her human.
My heart tried to leave me.
It did not ask permission.

Later,
the girl beside me disappeared,
as girls do.
The boy I was disappeared too,
replaced by a uniform
and a bottle passed hand to hand
in a room that smelled of boots and Brasso.
When the radio said her name
and then said “dead,”
I drank until morning
and learned how grief
can make a body useless.
Other men stood in my place that day.
They did not ask why.

Now, decades later,
I carve her again.
Not the woman—
the resistance.
Linoleum pushes back
where I want it to open.
Lines fill in.
Shadows refuse instruction.
Each proof shows me
what I missed,
what I thought I understood too soon.
I return with the chisel,
Still old, still slow,
still believing in correction.

This is what love was,
even then:
not ease,
not possession,
but the long willingness
to keep cutting
after the image fights back.
The continuing attempt to get it right.

Janis, first in a series of four in the "27 Club"
Uncategorized

Trumperanean Homesick Blues

This is a parody of Subterranean Homesick Blues by Bob Dylan. I offer him my apologies and my reverence. He has always been my music hero.

Here is the text:

Trumpterranean Homesick Blues
(with no mention of Epstein, the island or the files.

Donnie’s in the basement, lyin’ ‘bout Sleepy Joe.
I’m on the pavement, munching on a Sloppy Joe.
The man in a flak jack, no badge, facemask,
Says he’s got a hip flask, wants to spray my gas mask.
Look out kid, it’s not about your skin.
God knows why but you’re bein’ brown again.
Better duck into the library, looking for a has been.
The Man-From-GOP with the gold pen
Wants eleven dollars tax, you only got ten.

[Verse 2]
Kristi cracks horse whip, face full of lip flip,
Sayin’ that she’ll rip you just for a roach clip.
Leavitt lies anyway.
Leavittt says that many say
They must bust in early May, orders from the DA.
Look out kid, don’t matter what you did.
Walk on your tip toes, real free speech blows.
Better stay away from those who master how to brown-nose.
Predispose to ignore the pedos.
You need to be a Proud Boy to know which way the blood flows

[Verse 3]
Oh, get sick, get well, try not to go to hell.
Shit smell, hard to tell if ketchup on the wall fell.
Veep Vance, couch pants, no dance, e-mail
Bound to derail, be a footnote if you fail.
Look out kid, you’re gonna get hit
By losers, cheaters, girlie users,
Hangin round the theaters.
Girl by the whirlpool’s gonna be a man tool.
Don’t follow leaders, and watch poetic meters.

[Verse 4]
Oh, get born, learn norms, stand lines, pay fines for
Concubines, get fat, shoot gats, try to wear a red hat
Donald, JD, Marco, Hegseth, big dicks
January 6, gets a pardon, and a job fix.
Look out kid, they keep it all hid.
Congress can’t complain, full of losers and the lame.
“Courts Right As Rain” means you’re totally insane.
Don’t want to be left scum? better play dumb.
The Court don’t work cuz McConnell left a bloodstain.

Print, Uncategorized

Button Nose

This is the happiest accident of this early year. I actually have 4 of these accidents. Three might be usable. This is being sent to my daughter, Maggie, as it is inspired by her son Harvey. I am saving one for me. But three other kids and only two prints…one if the ghost image is unsettling.

Anyway, this is A/P “Button Nose” 2026

Happy printing accident.
Parody, Poetry, song lyrics, Uncategorized

M.A.G.A./Epstein’s Island

M.A.G.A./Epstein’s Island (Parody of “Y.M.C.A.” by the Village People)

MAGA, there’s no need to feel riled
I said, MAGA, there are no Epstein files
I said, MAGA, don’t stop the Seig Heils
There’s no need to be unhappy

MAGA, you can hate Mexico
I said, MAGA, there’s a place you can go
You can stay there, and I’m sure you will find
Many ways to have a good time

It’s fun to stay on Epstein’s Island,
It’s fun to stay on Epstein’s Island,
They have everything that pedos enjoy,
You can hang out with all the boys.

It’s fun to stay at Epstein’s Island,
It’s fun to stay at Epstein’s Island.
You can get your pipes cleaned,
And keep your esteem,
It’s a goddamned pervert’s dream.

MAGA, keep worshipping me,
I said, MAGA, be like Epstein,
I said, MAGA, you can make real your dreams,
But you’ve got to know this one thing

No man does it all by himself,
I said, MAGA, young girls want to help,
Just go there to Epstein’s Island,
I’m sure they can help you today.

It’s fun to stay on Epstein’s Island,
It’s fun to stay on Epstein’s Island,
They have all the things that perverts enjoy,
You can hang out with all the boys.

It’s fun to stay at Epstein’s Island,
It’s fun to stay at Epstein’s Island.
You can get your pipes cleaned,
And keep your esteem,
It’s a goddamned pervert’s dream.

MAGA, you’re living the dream,
I said, MAGA, be part of the scheme,
You’ll get what you want, don’t ask why,
Just ride through Epstein’s sky

When Epstein came up to me,
And said, “Donald, take a plane ‘cross the sea,”
Island’s waiting, no need to hide,
Take a ride, leave morals aside.

It’s fun to stay on Epstein’s Island,
It’s fun to stay on Epstein’s Island,
They have everything that perverts enjoy,
You can hang out with little boys.

It’s fun to stay at Epstein’s Island,
It’s fun to stay at Epstein’s Island.
You can get your pipes cleaned,
And keep your esteem,
It’s a real damned pervert’s wet dream.
M.A.G.A.
M.A.G.A.

Parody, song lyrics, Uncategorized

MAGA Rhapsody

On the day of tRump’s birthday Parade I offer a new parody to the tune of Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody. Written by Steve Marsh with Executive Producer credits to Debora Marsh.

MAGA Rhapsody
A parody to the tune of “Bohemian Rhapsody” by Queen
Lyrics by Steve Marsh
Executive Producer: Debora Marsh

(Chorus)
Is this the real life?
Or just conspiracy?
Caught in a tweetstorm,
Out of touch with reality—
Open your eyes,
Look up to the skies and lie—

(Trump)
I’m just a rich guy, I get no sympathy,
Because I’m easy bought, ego stroked,
Truth is fake, logic broke—
Any way the vote goes
Doesn’t really matter
To me,
(TO ME…)
….
Interlude

(Trump)
Mama, just duped the land,
Put a big lie in their head,
Waved the flag which wraps their dead—
Mama, MAGA’s beautiful,
But now I’ve gone and stirred the Proud Boys’ pride—
Mama—OOOH,
Didn’t mean to tweet so loud,
If you don’t find me back at Mar-A-Lago,
Carry on, carry guns—
The truth doesn’t matter.

Too late, my time has come,
The walls are closing in,
Got indictments on my skin—
Goodbye, MAGA crew,
I’ve got to grift—
Gotta leave you all behind for crypto coin—
Mama—OOOH (any way the vote goes), DEB
I don’t wanna lose,
Sometimes wish I’d never agreed to run…

Interlude)

(Chorus)
I see a little silhouetto of a man—
Orange glow! Orange glow!
Can he dance a Mar-a-Lambo?
Thunderbolts and libel,
And a handsigned Bible, see—
(Guns ‘n’ tariffs!) GUNS ‘N’ TARIFFS!
(Guns ‘n’ tariffs!) GUNS ‘N’ TARIFFS!
Guns ‘n’ tariffs! Let him go!

(Trump) ?
I’m just a rich boor, nobody loves me—

(Chorus)
He’s just a rich boor from a gold family!
Spare him his place in fake history!

(Trump)
Easy win, easy grift—
Will you let me go?

(Chorus)
Q-A-non! No—we will not let him go! LET HIM GO! DEB
Q-A-non! We will not let him go! LET HIM GO
Q-A-non! We will not let him go! LET HIM GO
Will not Let him go—will not let him go!
No no no oh oh oh!

OH, MAGA MIA, MAGA MIA

(Trump)
Democracy has a jail cell just for me (for meeeee… for meeeeeeee!)

(Interlude)

(Trump)
So you think you can stone me and leave me to lie?
So you think you can fact-check and spit in my eye?!
Oh baby—
Can’t jail me like that, baby!
Just gotta get out,
Just gotta run right to Vlad’mir.

(Interlude)

Nothing really matters,
Not the law, not facts—
Nothing really matters,


MAGA… doesn’t matter…
…to me.
Interlude
(Chorus)
Any way the vote goes

Parody, Poetry, song lyrics, Uncategorized

Hotel Mar-A-Lago

This is a parody of Hotel California by the Eagles. It is called
Hotel Mar-A-Lago

In a land full of slogans, red hats in the mist,
Gaslight fills the air, can’t tell what I missed.
Up ahead in the distance, I saw a gold-plated sign.
My head grew heavy and my morals dim–
Had to stop for the crime.
There he stood in the doorway, with a spray-tanned grin,
And I was thinking to myself,
“This could be hell or he’s golfing again.”
Then he lit up a Big Mac and he waved me inside.
Voices down the Mar-A-Hallway
Said, “Enjoy the red tide.”

(Chorus)
Welcome to the Hotel Mar-A-Lago.
Such a freaky place (such a sneaky face),
Billionaire3 disgrace.
Plenty of room at the Hotel Mar-A-Lago.
Any time of year, (fake news and fear),
You can gaslight here.

His mind is mostly Twitter, his heart is full of spite.
He’s got a cabinet of sychophants
Who chant, “You’re always right.”
And Elon’s in the courtyard, unfollowed and half-banned,
Shouting “Mars,” and “DOGE,” and “Epstein.”
Still no one understands.
They built a wall of nonsense, with lies that never end,
But the truth got fact-checked at the border.
Now they just pretend.
And in the Lincoln bedroom they argue with a ghost.
Honest Abe’s been grave spinning
While Elon is fully dosed.

Welcome to the Hotel Mar-A-Lago,
Such a clownish scene (with a beauty queen),
On a fascist lean.
Livin’ it up at the Hotel Mar-A-Lago.
What a nice surprise (full of alibis)
When the facts all die.

TV on the ceiling. Big Macs stacked on gold,
And he said, “We are just kings of truth, the lies we have sold,”
And in the gilded bathroom, they gathered for the spin.
They quoted Ten Commandments but denied the deadly sins.
Last thing I remember, I was running for the gate.
I had to find the fact check crew before it got too late.
“Relax,” said the butler, “we’re designed to deceive–
You can log out any time you want…but you’ll still believe.”

Image by ChatGPT

Another rendition by friend, Joe Troyer. Thanks, Joe