Vol. I, No. 4 · May 7, 2026
Art Trigger, Coming Through
May 7, 2026 · Washington, D.C.
Writing is Art’s first impulse.
His primordial buzz.
Come to be that way by habit,
by routine.
So he returns here —
now and again —
to wander.
To feel the mind flit about.
Words appearing.
Some neuronal movement guiding this.
The arm and the pen
appendages to something else
that equals a life in motion.
Once upon a time
he wrote to tell you stories
in some performative way.
Art, object.
You, subject.
But now —
ain’t this some kind of two way street?
You on the reading end.
Him throwing a sideshow.
Or who really knows
what’s going on
behind our masks-a-many.
It’s just this pen.
A minimalist approach
has taken hold.
A preference for stillness before travel.
Coffee on the porch over TV.
A desire to engage with very little else —
but for books
and this here paper.
Friends, family, strangers on the street —
always drawn to the fresh interaction.
The real one to one.
The intimate get to know you.
These are the real opportunities for learning.
More so than the wine list
from the local Italian bistro.
Though some wine is good.
I’ll admit that.
We don’t mention many objects here.
We delineate instead
the parameters of thought
encircling a life well lived.
One you can dig into
with no regrets.
The performance, thank God, over.
No more Art the best all-around
most spirited guy
at the old high school ball.
You can come and go
whenever you want.
I just want to be sure you were invited —
to this my party,
my event,
a celebration of a whole new me.
Little old me’s that alternately care —
so much —
and yet don’t —
for the objects,
the possessions,
the monitors,
the screens,
the digital tickers and tapes.
Any takers for an adventure to no place?
No one?
Back to work then.
Don’t mind me.
All I really need right now
is some food on my plate
that won’t go bad.
Art Trigger, Coming Through
Vol. I, No. 2 · World Tuna Day
Art Trigger, Coming Through
May 2, 2026 · Rehoboth Beach, Delaware · 01:45 AM
Art’s on the loose.
Up. Awake. Alert. About.
Mind tripping through time,
the early morning hours —
aware, keenly so,
that you’re with me now,
and we have no idea.
Zilch.
Where we’re going.
Your wish is my command,
said the genie.
Though I have never met the genie.
I do have three wishes.
Yet they can go unstated for the record.
For the record.
Though not here in any event.
Top secret.
Dinner in Rehoboth —
oysters and steak with Cora.
The disengaged life not half bad,
but as always,
seeking reengagement,
refinement,
realignment —
the desire to latch on
to some great new destiny.
It’s 1:45 AM.
Or approximately there so.
Cora is asleep.
As are the neighbors.
A single light shines above
this here notebook.
I read a sec.
I write a sec.
I know where I am in time.
For a minute.
Then I drill down again.
Lose focus.
Again.
Breathe.
And yet, and yet —
Art was circling around some philosophy.
Some way of life,
as we all do.
The quiet here is loud.
The tinnitus, a slight ring.
This sense that you’ve finally found
some wonderful no-place in time.
There’s leftover pizza in the fridge.
But I’m thinking instead
I might run to the local Wawa
to grab a tuna on wheat.
I’m thinking of things
hard to always articulate.
You sit down.
You move your pen.
You look at the words
laying themselves out.
They’re fine.
Trigger glyphics, said Art.
What do you wanna be when you grow up?
You know it.
You are it.
Information technology —
you faked it till you made it.
You were in it to win it.
You won.
Welcome to the here and now.
Friends, Romans, countrymen —
there’s a big red blight
occupying the white upon us.
What to do?
What to do?
You can run but you can’t hide.
Like a snake caught in a wagon rut.
Clichié. Clichié.
Through the sands of time immemorial.
Hark. Who goes there?
Yes, ma’am.
I’m certain we will get to the bottom of it.
Four out of five dentists say
SKYRIZI is the best thing for eczema.
Agree. 100%.
Got it.
Will do.
Art, my love,
had a preference for gummy bears.
Vitamin C and D
and the mighty magic multi
for the man over 50 —
coursing through time
on the way to his longevity.
So as not to be cut short
or cut off from the fun.
The life.
The mind on fire
at half past a monkey’s ass.
Sorry for cursing.
Art Trigger, Coming Through
Vol. I, No. 1 · International Workers’ Day
Art Trigger, Coming Through
May 1, 2026 · Washington, D.C. · 05:02 AM
Awake now in DC proper.
Northeast.
Morning chores done.
05:02 AM.
Up before the birds.
Cora and Mo still asleep.
The dining room silent.
Just me here,
sipping alternately —
coffee and water —
in the present minute moving forward.
Looking out at the day.
Planned drive to Rehoboth Beach, Delaware.
A hike around Henlopen Acres.
See the ocean.
Get my feet in the sand.
That ocean air
after a trying week.
Back and forth between my primary
and my psychologist —
one for diagnostics
and the management of chronic things,
the other for some solace and respite.
A little —
it’s okay.
This morning, though,
is mine.
“I’m Art Trigger. And this is my story unfolding in what some refer to as real time.”
Reynolds’ biography of Walt Whitman
interspersed with passages
by the man, the myth himself —
a taste of those times
in my time.
Between sips of half-caff,
I’m just drifting now.
And how are you?
I seek to bring you into Art’s world.
For art’s sake.
I’m Art Trigger.
And this is my story
unfolding in what some refer to
as real time.
We’re all human here.
Mortals at that.
And if you’re anything like me,
there’s a heavy dose of worry and doubt
that comes with the day to day task of living.
But with breakfast and work and all —
seems so.
Yeah.
Another day.
Another day.
I love the night more than the day.
Though I admit the day —
it’s a second love.
If only behind Harjo, Cora, and Mo.
My children, my lover, and her babies.
Time.
You know.
You get through it.
You keep moving.
You come through.
Join me now
in this mad lib oration.
Art Trigger, Coming Through