Making Jambalaya on a brisk Fall night. Searing Cajun flight. Bayous beckoning in every bite. Sausage spheres, ricey specks, lid on tight. Simmer on a low gurgle boil, two hours: about right.

I got the Covid Booster Blues. Feetup, soxoff, no shoes. Left arm sports a throbbing bruise. Head filled with taps and avoiding the news.

I got the Covid Booster Blues. Laiddown, stretchedout, looking for my muse. A hard day’s night yet not reaching for booze. Nausea and gut pains ooze.

I got the Covid Booster Blues. Yet what else would I choose?

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…


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…

COVID: maximizes misery, abbreviates action.

COVID: encourages everyday entropy, inspires indoor inertia.

COVID: capitalizes CRUELTY.

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…

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



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…

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…

Pojo 1975

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

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