JUST PUTTING THIS OUT THERE:

 

Mitch Jackson, Esq.

MEMORIAL DAY 2026

 

 I usually post a photo of one of my favorite sculptures in Boston, The Robert Gould Shaw Memorial, which is installed across the street from the Massachusetts State House, on the Boston Common.

"Commissioned from the celebrated American sculptor Augustus Saint-Gaudens in the early 1880s and dedicated as a monument in 1897, the Shaw Memorial has been acclaimed as the greatest American sculpture of the nineteenth century.

The relief masterfully depicts Colonel Shaw and the first African American infantry unit from the North to fight for the Union during the Civil War. The sculpture combines the real and allegorical, and presents a balance of restraint and vitality."

I also include, with the post, Robert Lowell's moving poem about the Shaw Memorial in which Lowell ties in the yet unresolved issues of the Civil War with the mindless consumerism that grips the nation in his poem “For the Union Dead”.  It is one of my favorite poems; and when I visit the Shaw Memorial, as I often do, I think of Lowell's poem that so perfectly limns the relief and its setting in the Boston Common.


"One of Lowell’s best-known works, Union Dead is a multi-layered poem set in the heart of Boston. On the surface, it is an elegy to the heroic Massachusetts 54. The soldiers fought with valor and moral integrity while trying to preserve the Union and end slavery. A closer examination reveals a country that blindly worships Capitalism. Following consumerism alone has left the country directionless. Lowell watches the steam shovels atwork and comments that avarice is literally and figuratively shaking the Massachusetts Statehouse, “Parking spaces luxuriate like civic sandpiles in the heart of Boston. A girdle of orange, Puritan-pumpkin colored girders braces the tingling Statehouse.” Lowell is nostalgic for the Boston of his youth and for a country, real or imagined, whose moral integrity was intact. Lowell is raising an objection to a country that commodifies the nuclear age, he objects to the new realism; he objects to the triumph of
commercialism over morality, he objects to a country that has forsaken spirituality for physicality:“On Boylston Street a commercial photograph shows Hiroshima boiling over a Mosler safe, the “Rock of Ages” that survived the blast. Space is nearer.”  

The space that Lowell speaks of is just that--Nothingness. Extinction of the human race will be the cost if we cannot move to higher moral ground."

FOR THE UNION DEAD

The old South Boston Aquarium stands
in a Sahara of snow now. Its broken windows are boarded.
The bronze weathervane cod has lost half its scales.
The airy tanks are dry.
Once my nose crawled like a snail on the glass;
my hand tingled to burst the bubbles
drifting from the noses of the crowded, compliant fish.

My hand draws back. I often sigh still
for the dark downward and vegetating kingdom
of the fish and reptile. One morning last March,
I pressed against the new barbed and galvanized

fence on the Boston Common. Behind their cage,
yellow dinosaur steamshovels were grunting
as they cropped up tons of mush and grass
to gouge their underworld garage.

Parking spaces luxuriate like civic
sandpiles in the heart of Boston.
a girdle of orange, Puritan-pumpkin colored girders
braces the tingling Statehouse,

shaking over the excavations, as it faces Colonel Shaw
and his bell-cheeked Negro infantry
on St. Gaudens' shaking Civil War relief,
propped by a plank splint against the garage's earthquake.

Two months after marching through Boston,
half of the regiment was dead;
at the dedication,
William James could almost hear the bronze Negroes breathe.

Their monument sticks like a fishbone
in the city's throat.
Its Colonel is a lean
as a compass-needle.

He has an angry wrenlike vigilance,
a greyhound's gentle tautness;
he seems to wince at pleasure,
and suffocate for privacy.

He is out of bounds now. He rejoices in man's lovely,
peculiar power to choose life and die-
when he leads his black soldiers to death,
he cannot bend his back.

On a thousand small town New England greens
the old white churches hold their air
of sparse, sincere rebellion; frayed flags
quilt the graveyards of the Grand Army of the Republic

The stone statutes of the abstract Union Soldier
grow slimmer and younger each year-
wasp-waisted, they doze over muskets and muse through their sideburns…

Shaw's father wanted no monument
except the ditch,
where his son's body was thrown
and lost with his "niggers."

The ditch is nearer.
There are no statues for the last war here; on Boylston Street, a commercial photograph
shows Hiroshima boiling

over a Mosler Safe, the "Rock of Ages"
that survived the blast. Space is nearer.
when I crouch to my television set,
the drained faces of Negro school-children rise like balloons.
Colonel Shaw
is riding on his bubble,
he waits
for the blessed break.
The Aquarium is gone. Everywhere,
giant finned cars nose forward like fish;
a savage servility
slides by on grease.

                                    --Robert Lowell


On the Boston Common: 

Over 200 volunteers spent Wednesday planting flags for Memorial Day on the grounds of Boston Common in downtown Boston in honor of those who served and died for our country. 

The flags represent all of the fallen soldiers from Massachusetts who have died since the civil war.

Peace.

YOUR SUNDAY MOMENT OF ZEN

 

SATURDAY NIGHT MUSIC

 

TRUMP: "...a moral failure in a badly tailored suit, a narcissist who mistakes domination for leadership and spectacle for subtance."

 

It's always a pleasure to read a post by Michael Jochum.

There is something uniquely offensive about watching a man with the aesthetic sensibilities of a casino arsonist wander through America’s civic inheritance like a drunk landlord with a demolition permit.

Today, Donald Trump apparently referred to the Reflecting Pool as a “reflecting lake” that he’s going to make “waterproof,” which is such a perfectly Trumpian phrase it almost reads like satire. Waterproof. As opposed to what, Donald? The famously leaky body of water? The concept itself tells you everything. A man so intellectually incurious, so monumentally ignorant, so allergic to history and nuance, that he treats national landmarks the way a mediocre property developer treats a tired golf resort. Rip it out. Rename it. Slap gold trim on it. Pretend improvement has occurred.

The Reflecting Pool is not some neglected feature outside a failing Mar-a-Lago annex. It sits in the shadow of Lincoln, a solemn axis of memory, sacrifice, protest, and national reckoning. It has reflected marches for civil rights, antiwar demonstrations, presidential memorials, grief, hope, and moments of actual American greatness. But to Trump, history is only valuable if his reflection appears in it.

So now, apparently, it’s a swamp. Fitting, really. Because everything this man touches eventually becomes one.

That’s the pattern, isn’t it? Institutions. Norms. Alliances. Language itself. He doesn’t build nearly as much as he brands, degrades, or repurposes for ego consumption. He treats democracy like a licensing opportunity. The presidency, to him, has never been public service. It’s been the ultimate vanity acquisition.

And yes, billionaires adore him, not because he represents strength, patriotism, or some mythical business genius, but because he functions exactly as intended: a tax shelter with vocal cords. He enriches the already grotesquely wealthy while selling working Americans a fantasy wrapped in grievance, flags, and manufactured enemies. The poor? Disposable. The vulnerable? Weakness to be mocked. The “unchosen,” as you so aptly frame it? Collateral damage in the prosperity gospel fever dream of Christian nationalism and oligarchic greed.

Which brings us to the real cruelty. Because cruelty is the point. Not accidental cruelty. Not unfortunate side effects. Deliberate cruelty. Toward immigrants. Toward political opponents. Toward the sick. Toward the poor. Toward women. Toward institutions that dared suggest accountability applies to him. Toward the memory of former administrations whose greatest offense was governing without worshipping him.

Even our monuments aren’t spared. Everything must be dragged into his orbit, rebranded in vulgarity, diminished by contact. He is not a steward of American history. He is its vandal.

And what exhausts me most is not even Trump himself anymore. It’s the endless chorus of enablers who continue to clap like trained seals while the furniture burns. Men in expensive suits. Cable news opportunists. Christian nationalists singing Onward, Christian Soldiers while kneeling before a man who embodies none of the values they pretend to defend. Billionaires congratulating themselves at private dinners while families wonder how to pay for groceries, rent, prescriptions, or another obscene tank of gas.

Donald Trump is not merely an embarrassment. He is a moral failure in a badly tailored suit, a narcissist who mistakes domination for leadership and spectacle for substance.

And when this chapter finally ends, and it will end, one way or another, history will not be kind to those who mistook this grotesque parade of ego, greed, and cruelty for patriotism.

Michael Jochum

Author of Not Just a Drummer: Reflections on Art, Politics, Dogs, and the Human Condition

Veteran drummer, writer, observer of the absurd, and still foolish enough to believe truth matters.