The strangest thing about Willem Dafoe’s career is not that he played Jesus Christ once. It’s that he played Jesus only once. A brief clerical malfunction in the casting universe, immediately corrected by returning him to his usual rotation of characters who look like they’ve been living on a steady diet of dust, nicotine, unresolved sexual tension and built up flatus.
Nothing from the Christ role appears to have adhered. No trace of grace. No residual compassion. Not even the faintest aftertaste of “love one another.”
When I asked him for an interview, the man who once overturned the moneychangers’ tables responded with the charm of a sun‑bleached parking citation:
“I charge.”
Three words. Dry as chalk. Delivered with the affect of someone who has spent his entire career speaking from the shadows of graffiti-scrawled industrial stairwells.
This would have been unremarkable if I hadn’t spent years in the company of people whose cultural mass makes Dafoe’s filmography look like a series of public‑service announcements about dehydration. Lemmy offered me cigarettes on his hotel bed. Katherine MacGregor, not an interview subject but a personal friend, took me to Amadeus in her Mercedes and explained the film with the precision of a woman who had outlived several artistic epochs. Caroline Munro had lunch with me in London. Gitane DeMone shared a meal; Tairrie B. Murphy gave me a squeezy hug after a long interview at a Hollywood Starbucks. Ellyn Maybe once talked with me on Zoom for nearly ten hours without implying that the meter was running. Tom Sullivan, Iris Berry, Ellyn Maybe, Pleasant Gehman, Militia Vox, Valor Kand, Caitlín R. Kiernan, Amélie Frank, John Shirley—all of them managed to speak without attaching a price tag to the act of being alive.
None of them ever said, “I charge.” They had no need to.
Dafoe’s line didn’t offend me; then again, I am neither innocent nor naive. Of course he isn’t Jesus. He’s an actor who essayed that role once. At the same time, it amplified an extraordinary reality…everything before and after fits neatly into a narrow emotional climate: dimly lit, vaguely threatening, and fundamentally transactional.
At some point, the absurdity staged itself. I imagined a biblical marketplace, the kind with dust that has given up on kinetic movement.
Dafoe‑Jesus emerges, robes hanging like fabric that has never known water, eyes carrying the same parched intensity he brings to every role that isn’t Christ. He approaches with the solemnity of a man about to deliver a parable, then leans in and mutters, “You want an interview? That’ll cost you.” Salvation as a side hustle.
He adjusts his crown of thorns with the same energy as a man straightening a hat he found in a gutter and begins explaining that miracles incur overhead, that loaves and fishes do not multiply themselves, that the Sermon on the Mount comes with a mount fee.
The disciples stand behind him like dehydrated stagehands—Peter attempting authority, Judas calculating percentages, Thomas deciding whether to doubt the whole thing or request documentation.
I mention Lemmy, Betty White, Katherine MacGregor, Caroline Munro, Gitane, Tairrie, Ellyn’s ten‑hour conversation, the thousands I’ve been paid for my work. He listens without absorbing anything, then shrugs with the resignation of someone who has never portrayed a character capable of hydration. “I’m not them,” he says. “I’m working here.”
He produces a battered invoice tablet from somewhere in his robe—an object that looks like it has survived several droughts—and begins itemizing a charge for “spiritual consultation.” After a long pause, he pockets it again and says, “Fine. This one’s on the house. Don’t tell the Pharisees.”
Then he disappears into the crowd, back into the role he never stops playing: a man who looks like he’s about to ask if you’re finished with that cigarette.
The only miracle he performed was waiving his own fee. Those two words were the only free performance I was ever going to get, and they conveyed everything necessary.
and those with dance cards to death’s final waltz.
Ebon speckled clouds lit up the skies
as the blackbirds moved between worlds
like holy ravens imparting omens,
plucking seeds from towering sunflowers,
spreading feathery imas—divine inspiration—
from the tips of their wings and naked beaks;
their melodious harmonies masked oracles
yet delighted my ears which eagerly absorbed
each mystical note, yet avoided eye contact
as tricksters’ shared sacred songs and healed.
*****************************************
Recycling
Like a frustrated mongoose
my USB-C iPhone plug cries out
refusing to recharge as waste paper
burst into flames and plastic endures.
Recycling chewing gum
by crafting teeth-marked chaws—
green, pink, yellow, blue, red,
orange, and purple lumps–
has changed; those days
of sticking it beneath chairs
came and went creative minds
into spearmint ashtrays,
cinnamon door stops,
and licorice paperweights.
I weigh my limited options
in a throwaway culture given to comfort.
seduced by streaming influencers.
mesmerized by celebrity.
*****************************************
Sin Salida Real
Dude ranch entrance signs promise
magical gateways—city slicker portals—
old west access to fatigued quarter horses
or docile mares along hoof hardened trails
each path an exit from the familiar
to an exotic, rugged thoroughfare
showcasing alien pastoral images
teasing one’s sight with kodak color
as the overwhelming scent of sapphire
orchards, blue moon wisteria,
dry eucalyptus, and lavender bundles
fill starved lungs with an ineffable
fragrance distilled in nature’s garden.
True, yes true! Ranch guests exercised
their olfactory senses in big city bellies
breathing in smog, choaking on smoke
inhaling car exhaust like unrefined narcotics
provided means and ends for many metropolitans
working where glass and steel structures
solemnly shaded select sidewalks
at the whim of municipal planners,
free parking spots existed in memory,
as angry voices merged with the sound
of car horns, street minstrels and traffic.
Back at the dude ranch, city dwellers
reveled in roleplay, scraping horse shit
off of highly polished cowboy boots
shouting like fools as they attempt
to rope calves in small wooden corrals
answerable to no one but themselves
until country trysts and make believe
scenarios confuse dissembling with escape
exits beget entrances, portals lead to prisons.
*****************************************
Manatee Musings
For Anne Waldman
I
heard
Anne Waldman, called
Ginsburg’s spiritual wife,
her Angel Hair Anthology—
The Howl’s first cousin,
restlessly tranquil,
Buddha’s loins
issue a bold lineage,
a priceless odyssey
through light and shadow,
Outriders rocking on edges
of “The Jack Kerouac School
of Disembodied Poetics,”
meditation’s soft underbelly,
a manatee reminder.
Waldman’s soul revisits humanity,
encourages disparate voices:
unchecked,
uncensored,
unimpeded,
unconstrained,
responds to diaspora’s
social signals,
communities under siege,
Rupert Murdock’s minions
mind-numbing brainwash
of twisted truths, invented factoids,
political assignations.
Sing on like the manatee,
Anne, sing on.
A Washington-based author, poet, educator, and Pushcart Nominee, Sterling Warner’s works have appeared in such literary magazines, journals, and anthologies The Raven’s Perch, Lothlórien Poetry Journal, Ekphrastic Journal Review, Bewildering Stories, and Verse-Virtual. Warner has written over a dozen volumes of poetry/fiction including Without Wheels, ShadowCat, Edges, Memento Mori, Serpent’s Tooth, Flytraps: Poems, Cracks of Light: Pandemic Poetry & Fiction, Halcyon Days: Collected Fibonacci, Abraxas, Gunills’s, Garden: Poetry, Seaboard Magic (2026)—as well as Masques: Flash Fiction & Short Stories. He currently writes, hosts “virtual” poetry/fiction readings, turns wood, and enjoys fishing and boating along the Hood Canal.
As I walked the streets Winter underneath my feet With lingering thoughts Like past lives incomplete With beauty hidden underneath my tongue With dreams as green as my mother’s thumb I kneel at God’s feet My breath incomplete Like a secret defeat Futility dancing to tomorrow’s beat Vivid notions to deceit Dragging in the heart of the midday hour Stressing the sun’s smirk Watching winter’s Swoon… Then comes summer As crescent as candid as the moon Like the morning soon Creeps out of its cocoon…
Jacques Fleury
Jacques Fleury is a Boston Globe featured Haitian American Poet, Educator, Author of four books and literary arts student at Harvard University online. His latest publication “You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self” & other titles are available at all Boston Public Libraries, the University of Massachusetts Healey Library, University of Wyoming, Askews and Holts Library Services in the United Kingdom, The Harvard Book Store, The Grolier Poetry Bookshop, Amazon etc… He has been published in prestigious publications such as Spirit of Change Magazine, Wilderness House Literary Review, Muddy River Poetry Review, Litterateur Redefining World anthologies out of India, Poets Reading the News, the Cornell University Press anthology Class Lives: Stories from Our Economic Divide, Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene among others…Visit him at: http://www.authorsden.com/jacquesfleury.–
Jacques Fleury’s book You Are Enough: The Journey Towards Understanding Your Authentic Self
Some people consider that individuals are not exercising currently, however they realize it is positive for their well-being.
To begin with, the issue can be attributed to a number of different factors. Chief among the primary causes would be how busy we are. Many people work long hours in the office because of much data and manage extra digital technologies, which is why they do not find leisure time to exercise. Furthermore, this happens among students who are busy with house chores and homework. In addition, some people consume diet dishes as vegetarians and think diet is enough and that they don’t have to exercise. However, exercise is still important, even for them.
Nevertheless, some feasible measures could be adopted to tackle the problems described above. The first possible measure to address this issue would be organized competitions with prizes given by the government as a way for them to help every person. Moreover, employees of the council should set up sports matches among the adults and old people. Playing football or volleyball could bring people together. Another plausible way to mitigate the issue might be that the regime should restrict private cars instead of bicycles. Communicate to the public that using bicycles as convenience transport on the ground will not only give much profit to humans but will also help with reducing air pollution in the environment. In fact, if a person cycles every day to work, they will benefit their heart and lungs.
To sum up, the above – mentioned facts have outlined the reasons for as well as the impacts of this problem. This is a complex matter which can hardly be solved in the short term. However, if the above – mentioned measures are well implemented, it is likely that this problem can be overcome.
My name is Yayra Erkin qizi Bo‘riyeva. I was born on September 14, 2007, in the G‘uzor district of the Qashkadarya region.
I am currently a dedicated and motivated student with a strong interest in personal and academic development. I hold a B2 level certificate in English, which reflects my ability to communicate effectively in both written and spoken forms.
In addition, I participated in the “Yosh Kitobxon” competition, where I achieved a score of 2, demonstrating my interest in reading and literature. I am eager to further improve my skills, expand my knowledge, and actively contribute to any academic or professional environment I become part of.
In the beginning you are a distant turquoise triangle incongruous against sand.
All around, some one has taken a straight edge across the sea and then folded up the sky to box in us homo saps.
Sentry trawlers crawl their stations along the cloudwall perimeter.
Closer in, thoughtless speedboats laugh across the waves, diesel waterbugs.
Skiers trudge behind, trying to play catch-up.
Birds pepper the sky..
And here and there bobbin heads pop up, as jellyfish nudists sprawl motionless tanning themselves along the surf.
A long-ago engineer built his clam dam to further contain this ocean, but now it is more breach than construct, debris among the former fish.
Mini Vesuvii dot the shoreline, cold openings to another, yet hidden, world.
Your neon triangle slowly sprouts bucket-crafted sandcastle appendages, as your shape begins delineation.
All along the beach, a patchwork of erratic crowd heaves. Can there really be a fractal that describes the geometry of herky-jerky humankind?
Tuxedoed canine trio scratches in harmony, sniffs for an 8 count, resumes its rhythmic bowing to metronome waves that gently assault bathers white, bathers red, bathers brown. Colors evolve like chameleons.
Children, even those with beards, sport in the mer. Mothers coddle eager sea urchins, while youths (and used-to-be youths too) ogle maidens who gleam and undulate in sunsparkle.
The clockwork dogs resume their symphony.
And then, of a sudden, your nippled battlements fully confront. I espy your sandy tourney field, your flying buttresses, your emblazoned portcullis smile. And marvel at the royal keep impossibly curtained behind that turquoise tapestry.
But my feet continue dutifully on their rounds: today they must lay down their permanent sign track, announcing to all posterity my once-existence. Ye seekers after truth and/or beauty.
Here indeed is the ever-changing unchanged, infinity in miniscule, eternal now, pastless while ancient, futuring into forever. This everybeach.
All cosmologies compress and store in islands of indelible sand. All philosophy unravels on this strand, expands beyond knowing. And is humbled proudly in the doing.
I finally achieve beach end and turn to survey my day’s work: my ozymandias footprints already ruins.
And yet, the entire cosmos kaleidoscopes behind me out from your turquoise neon triangle, like the promiscuous eye of God.
