The only quote that will matter in ‘murican hindsight, 20–20. JB nailing the struck-out soul of a certain hysterically mendacious society to the sub-par drywall of a house of cards, just a slight breeze away from collapsing for good.

This Lifetrip takes Us to all compass points, perennial peregrinations predisposed to suspense. We drive the parts of the Journey that We can, with a shaky steering wheel that, more often than not, moves counter-clockwise. Counter-intuitive: nowsabout, Our COVIDacious disposition.

The public Universe is an unknowable murk, as We cavort with the same palmful of people. Together with the selected few…

Returning to normal when normal was, and still somewhat is, purely abnormal?

We must rush while We wait, nerve-needling torrents of watching ‘murica so much less than great, propelling towards an obvious future that keeps the same problems rolling on, like pink slimed meat glopping down some anguished conveyor belt in the sweatshop factory of settled mediocrity. Lookaround.

See the smothered souls, hindered hearts, crushed capacities. Do not: let this creeping cavalcade of confusion squander the immense growth You have made. Even as growth can feel more like stasis, or, perhaps, an ever-expanding tumor.

Hope is as scary as a…

5–27–2020

Dear Prime Mover,

I see you rushing, like a fast moving creek after snowmelt, down our cracked cement walkway, a fiercely efficient purpose woven into your mud-brown eyes. Your chopstick frame probably gets so much exercise like this, who needs a fucking gym membership. Your mandatory Prime cap is made less corporate generic by the addition of a favorite rock band button pinned to the bill. You clutch a blue and white colored package under your left arm like an ace running back would hold a pigskin, storming towards the end zone of our off kilter mailbox. Touchdown, but…

COVID: capitalizes cruelty.

COVID: maximizes misery, abbreviates action.

COVID: encourages everyday entropy, inspires indoor inertia.

COVID: leaves all those prior, tried and true daily routines that were punctuated with meaning to rot resoundingly in a wide open mass grave.

COVID: captions every newspaper photo of strangers unwisely proximate with an emoji of Darwinistic glee.

COVID: makes certain primal human desires seem ironically toxic.

Hugs and handshakes have gone the way of social white rhinos: grasping, espresso warm touches have been rendered functionally extinct for all science heeding people. They say it is not forever, at least.

But secondsminuteshoursdaysweeksmonths pass by in a panic pulsing, frantic headline gazing blur, and not much changes in the biggest big picture. Curves flattened in one place continue to climb like Andean pandemic peaks elsewhere. Hospitals in one privileged country are not overwhelmed and an abundance of ventilators sit patiently waiting for fresh hacking users, while in another, hotter region, in an acutely broken nation, latest COVID corpses are deposited as vulture bait on plastic tarps, outside shabby clinics where the power goes out twelve hours a day.

Eleven weeks and we are not any closer to physical contact with those we do not share a domicile with. Well, fuck you, Fauci, for always being right, and yet never remotely smug about it. I am sure, now as always before, you would relish being wrong about something that is so profoundly wrong.

COVID, mas que nada, is error epitomized and it has no intention of righting itself soon. All seven continents of guilty humanity have been laid low by a microscopic menace that can only be seen with laboratory lenses able to bore through steel fences.

So, in the midst of this simmering madness, it is finally time for a Mental Mom Visit. The moment has come to sink deep into cranial chambers and traverse the exactly four minutes it takes to arrive at her building, which is much taller than any other edifice in our area of undistinctive peri-urbanity.

First, I see myself driving slow and extra cautious throughout this short distance, turning right into her complex, and then parking. Next, I am masking up like some wild Tombstone bandito about to storm through the creaky swinging doors of a Wells Fargo that is dustier than a pharaonic tomb. But that is too grandiose of a simile, and I am not taking this slight risk in order to steal hard working frontier person money.

I open the Subaru door with grave apprehension, for that World is instantly closer now, and on its rancid, ruthless breath floats a Virus which knows no limits. That world I cannot begin to control or predict. Still, I make my way across the impeccable pavement of the parking lot, not seeing a single soul outside. Ahead of me, there are seven floors of luxury apartments with dozens of gray haired legends huddled haplessly, fearful of what lurks so cryptically beyond their curtains of drywall.

All seven continents of guilty humanity have been laid low by a microscopic menace that can only be seen with laboratory lenses able to bore through steel fences.

I picture myself walking into the blingy brass foyer of Mom’s building, then using my plastic keycard to activate the front door. I am in the lobby now, too bright and cheerful for our present dystopia, almost convincing me that the outside world has not become so impossible to exist in. There is nobody there, not Lisa smiling fakely through her adult braces behind the reception desk, and no renegade octogenarians straddling a cozy lounge chair and gambling that, because they have survived every other ravage of these past 8 heartbreaking decades, they have little to worry about.

It is thirty yards to the elevator, and I think I can make it without coming close to any of these sinister surfaces that look so pristine they could be photoshopped, surfaces that reek of aggressively wiped Clorox. I press the up button with my sole in an unusual athletic feet, immediately hear the middle elevator’s inoffensive bing, step haltingly into the empty car, and repeat my earlier athletic feet to order a trip to the fifth floor. I have been holding my breath now for at least 90 seconds and am probably turning a shade of Caribbean blue.

Not going to exhale yet. My Mom needs to see me, she has been left all alone for ages in a well stocked apartment with countless cable channels, a pampered castaway marooned inside an executive suite. I exhale loudly, dramatically.

I tell myself I cannot be symptomatic, that this kind of surprise will surely be welcomed by her. It is me, your only son, your eldest child, bearer of the family name that originated in some plague ridden hovel in medieval France and then stowed away to England and Ireland, on leaky boats.

I step out into the fifth floor hallway, where the newish green carpet is spotless and not a sound can be heard, save the buzzsaw of a blender in 506. Somebody making a smoothie that is likely delicious. Also, I can smell the savory incongruity of a holiday turkey being roasted somewhere. Still not a single person in sight. I head down to 502, give a firm takenotice knock, and wait for what seems like an entire season for Mom to approach on the other side.

-Yes, I hear her offer, cautiously. -It is me, Mom. Surprise. I could take it no longer. I lost your other half last year, and I know that you need the hugging’n’handholding of your beloved family like a parched camel must find her oasis. Let me be that oasis, chucking a degree of caution to the wind. My Mom turns the lock ponderously, pulls open the door with hesitation, and then I see her lush gray dome, and polished crystal ball eyes, and a smile so big it could vaccinate against any and all doom.

All seven continents of guilty humanity have been laid low by a microscopic menace that can only be seen with laboratory lenses able to bore through steel fences.

home-vised, deeply-dwelt

within the fourwall confines

of whatever is lucky

to be called inside

or not

we can train a laser beam gaze

on every subtle surface left undusted,

every carpet fiber missvacuumed,

every wall splotch left to fester

like a benign tumor,

and those of us who self-reverentially

call ourselves poets

can train a laser beam gaze

on every cryptic quatrain,

every ambiguous haiku,

every head-scratching sonnet

and actually speak

to the pandemified masses

who have no time for books

and lack the energy for our verses

maybe

we can aim our Cloroxed pens

at the heart of their…

i.

How wtf weird, this weirdass world

Of once again touch again

Random things, barely glanced surfaces

And subtle countertops, the odd park post

That holds doggie shit bags.

We did not want to touch it

For so long, that our fingers became accustomed

To only the uttermost familiar: whatever lurked,

Dustmite-gathering, in the bubblish confines

Of home, where no mightbelethal Virus

Could plant His predatory microbes,

And lay waste to formerly robust humans

With eager joy, plus a statistical advantage.

The Devil that incites such glee

is the Pandemic inside you and me:

adherence to what we can never…

Trigger Mournings

tw: jus w8. I will likely pull the trigga.

go figga. millions of fists are made airborne:

cuz our springtime gets bigga.

Trigger figure: sheer thumb profile,

pointed like a doberman snout spotting prey,

+ index finger is a perfectly straight road.

this image is a guncock, the coiled cobra

of a bullet delivery vessel

just waiting for the Word.

Air quality warning:

Do not even attempt to breathe this mourning.

No more slow dawn refreshers, the sun a basketball

Raising itself to capture the horizon.

We start sobbing even earlier now.

The sun is a scuffed basketball,

dis poem bars entry

with steelclad bars

to those with luxury cars

get a busted pass

instead you rich fucking twat

and never get fars.

Thissing on pars

with counting stars

uno por uno.

Count up each and every notion,

catalog them religiously

in the universe of your cerebellum.

Our single planet has been taken for granite-

When it actually combusts dust.

dis topia:. “Topos,” from the original Greek place,

and dis place is a paradise defaced, crater pocked with scars

that no collective reckoning can erase

in the earnest misenergy of stock market chase.

Toss me the replicant, replicated

Inadequate duplicate, pretensing

To be more than just

Wha tain’t.

So much of dis life

Is a genuine fake:

An underthought cubic zirconia

Of shitty trials and forced denials,

Litter-piles of grief plus disbelief

That this Era can do us no better.

Forget her. She would have dumped

Your cynical ass before long.

Tis not wrong

To feign optimism,

It just hurts beatdown bigger

When our Hope segues far too long

And morphs into certainty.

Scamander: thru life.

take a lasereye gander. perhaps: have a serpentine meander.

Engage in sum kinda nocturnal pander.

Time trespasses: with the slither of a subtle salamander.

my head is scratched, shaking off fake news dander.

Sure, they will run out of prophets to slander,

maim, and murder, and everyone else just

intellectually gerrymander:

bogus views, editorial bruise:

another daze work, shoulda kept pressing

snooze.

scamander: thru life.

bear hug the hopeful rainbows

of street-based strife.

remember:

every single poet is just nail-gnawing, plus cutting

through a bloated roast of lies

with the sharpest ginsu knives.

Pojo 1975

Rampant recorder of a riven world that always shoots a tractor beam of Hope.

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