The Quarantine Chronicles, Day 41

DAY 41: Italy vs. USA, world cup

my choice who to root for, my choice

the exile the ex-pat the chooser

I came here, I stayed

I found a home in another's

heart/arms/town with two cats in the

yard (life used to be so hard)

after a century it's still not home

it's okay, but I don't get them

they wouldn't get me either 
if they ever tried

I don't fit in, not one with my

surroundings, not immersed in a

cosmic meditative state like back

in the golden state.

is everybody blocked in high

school growing grey but

hair's still combed that same way?

who cares, my brothers are

there, my parents' graves, my

American house in an American

town -- we're an American band,

singing -- "Don't I Wish I Was There?"

or is here okay, here/there, hunkered 

down with my life-partner, cat, 

work, dream house, and public

healthcare. I can't imagine

risking my life to return to that

advanced sophisticated functioning 

America because it is not -- Trump 

broke it. Crack! Too easy. like a breadstick.

until it's fixed, I'm staying here, holing up

where they don't mess around -- Stay home

means it. Nobody's out. Hashtag. No, I don't 
wish I were back in California, my 
California -- no don't 

no, or yes, a little bit, closer

it's just too long a swim

my shoulders are tired

and nobody here can call

out my name.

The Quarantine Chronicles, Day 40

DAY 40: They tell you:

everyone is born alone and dies

alone, you die alone for sure

but they won't tell you when
otherwise

I don't want to die

alone

shipped out of my own sick bed

into an ambulance, the gurney

boys bumping my head going down

the stairs -- ouch --

into the sick bay, take off your 
ring, please, it won't come off

-- my family said goodbye back

there like they'd never see me again.

-- I'm stripped and hooked up

monitors, tubes, bottles and machines

up my nose, then down my throat, into 
my flacid air-sacks which hurt so bad

-- can I make one last video call --

I don't know what to say

I can't talk with an air-pump down

into my dripping red lungs -- I sit and wait

watch as they wheel the unfortunates out

the back, into a bag and/or a box,

into a military truck down to an open

pit or a hot oven (hell?) -- no one can

visit us, we can't see the helpers
who go about their business like ghosts

we only see their tired eyes, which say

-- at this point --

you die alone --

okay, but I

I didn't believe them, until now

I didn't get it.

The Quarantine Chronicles, Day 39

DAY 39: When and if, when and if

shit breaks down, it all goes to hell,

I can't get a good connection

for web teaching -- make do, but but

if my wi-fi shuts down

if the lights go off

if no water comes from the faucet

if there's no heat in winter

if the hospitals close

you're on your own

when shit breaks down

no TV

no Netflix

no more news or numbers

no power tools in the kitchen

no fridge

dishwasher, washing machine

let's move, nope no roads open

car battery's dead anyway

then we are totally fucked

there's no 'make do' then

then it's back to the stone age

in a few weeks, surprise!

better get yourself a gun

to turn this way or that

when shit breaks down

our government already has

lots of farting noise with no

substance, no production

no distribution

what shall we do? what shall

we do?

hug and die, lay down or walk

regret we didn't prepare better

for all the shit that could

conceivably

break down.

The Quarantine Chronicles, Day 38

DAY 38: Oops Factor -- when shit

goes wrong -- no, you probably

won't get infected if you go run on

the beach alone -- Oops, you did

somehow and now you're dying,

in ICU on a ventilator, she/he's

strong, they'll make it, we'll pray,

Oops out the backdoor in a coffin

straight to the crematorium, no

family allowed near, we'll send you

the ashes if the postal service is

ever working again -- I'm wearing

gloves, so there, Oops, when I 

touched shit then took gloves off

wrong I got germs on my hands

touched my eye before washing up

-- it itched -- then, nothing, I felt okay

Oops fever, fever all through the night,

there's no saying you're sorry, when

you infect someone, they could be

gone, when you had that tupperware

party everyone seemed healthy --

there's no regrets, no going back --

NO OOPS -- it's death, baby

the final frontier, the one Kirk, Spock,

Sulu and Uhura never met, you could

go there easy -- where no one has gone

before -- mass graves, piles of boxes

boxes of ashes -- way too late

for do-overs.

The Quarantine Chronicles, Day 37

DAY 37: Additional fuck yous go to:

the people who had a party on the roof

of our apartment building yesterday --

FUCK YOU, STAY HOME, STAY APART, the 

countries like Sweden that refuse to lock-down, you

kill yourselves and us too -- FUCK YOU

the US that just seems completely stupid

or evil all the way round -- F. YOU

people going to church, weddings, funerals --

FUCK YOU, TO ALL RELIGIONS THAT

CHEAPEN HUMAN LIFE (especially those

that say they don't) people who can't find

a mental hunkerdown and whine like babies

all the time -- you are spreading the antsy whimpy

whining cry-baby virus -- SHUT UP AND COPE!

self-discipline is a thing

learn it, practice it, embrace it, GROW

THE FUCK UP, those who praise doctors

and nurses and find every excuse to

go out -- YOU ARE HYPOCRITES

the doctors and nurses asked us, begged

us, to stay home to help them, for weeks 

or months, okay it's hard, we all crack, but

we do it for them, without complaint and

then for ourselves, their potential failures 

("oh damn, time of death ...") --

in the front door out the back in a box

like an assembly line of death that we must

break, stop, honor and interrupt.

The Quarantine Chronicles, Day 36

DAY 36: Warning: not for children:

or those sensitive to the rage

that profanity contains:

I'm distributing fucks today:

to any company trying to exploit the 

virus to make money -- FUCK YOU!

to any company that puts heart-

breaking references to the pandemic

in their advertising -- WE SEE YOU,

FUCK YOU! to any rich person who's 

donating a puny part of their wealth to get

good publicity for themselves and their ilk --

FUCK YOU, DONATE ANONYMOUSLY

to Jeff Bezos, who donated a ton of

money equivalent to 11 minutes of

his earnings year-round 24/7 --

FUCK YOU, MAN! to any polit-

ician who comes out publicly with

something to make themselves look

good, to improve their ratings in the

polls during a quarantine -- FUCK YOU

to those who contest every well-intentioned

provision because we are trained

to squabble over the details -- F.U.

to anyone who goes out in a quarantine

because they're just fed up with being

a prisoner -- FUCK YOU, YOU SHOULD BE

A PRISONER, it's way worse than this,

to journalists who lie, bend or emphasize the

positive to give us all a bit more hope --

FUCK YOU, TELL THE UGLY TRUTH,

hope is our job -- and to Donald John Trump

his cronies and worshippers -- JUST FUCK

YOU, put on a mask, go wash your hands, 

those blood stains look terrible.

The Quarantine Chronicles, Day 35

DAY 35: I stand accused, I stand 

accused of enjoying the quarantine

I deny I protest I am innocent

and my thoughts go to next summer

my training continues for the 

hard long trail I've planned

a hard long trail such as every

summer I walk: food, water

shelter on my back -- I alone

against the elements, embracing

the trail day after spectacular day --

now I am alone and again

surviving -- what if my excursions

were practice for refuge -- I

hear screams of the lost who

cannot leave home, what

tremendous suffering I can

barely feel -- screams of those

who have little food, no choc-

olate, no pizza pie -- have you not

also gone 2 x 20-mile days on

nothing, have you never got to

a dry creek counting on a 

drink -- screams of those

alone with themselves a life as

of mirror imaging they cannot

stand after the first day

-- that's not my best friend,

I want to kill that stranger --

I hear all this suffering and

feel pity for those who are meeting

it for the first time, but

I don't offer my helping hand.

The Quarantine Chronicles, Day 34

DAY 34: While the war is on, we're

being bombarded, we're trapped in

the dark underground, sirens blaring

we can't talk or think only smell

the stink -- do good things happen?

does love? does satisfaction?

when the grief is bad, John Prine

dies, we're all so sad, kind

like a bunch of humans in

trouble, separated one continent

width apart, alone in life

alone in death -- do good

things happen? can we balance

this out? not all bad, hunters

have found noise pollution

and air pollution diminish

though real serious ecological

damage remains -- the coral

is bleaching, the ice still

melts, temperature rises,

animals disappearing, insects

breathe through your mouth

and intellectuals who refuse

human interaction say that

fewer humans is a good 

reaction -- I say how many need

to die for you to love someone?

and the haters, scammers and fanatics

say

it's punishment for loving gays

-- fuck you too.

The Quarantine Chronicles, Day 33

DAY 33: What's that sound, oh my

what's that sound -- is it Boris 

Johnson's respirator's swish and gurgle - no,

it's a garbage truck, a rare early morning racket

and the magpies nagging cawing

old man snoring after a sleepless night

no hydrofoils anymore, they were noisy

no autostrada drone

I hear the dog barks more

than loud talking or cars

honking -- I'm here to pick you

up -- I'm here, I exist, I

make sound -- but this

machine, this ventilator we're

all so hooked on, the oxygen

fix we all want so much

even if only on TV following

up and down the wards in and

out we breathe in time with

those who might make it

or might go silent

beep, shut it down

no dogs or birds on the ward

no mechanical hum

no hum except this whisper

in my ears I can't shake

my lack of equilibrium

made a strident A# note

to keep me company

telling me secrets

all the way.

The Quarantine Chronicles, Day 32

DAY 32: I want a golden crown, a pretty cap

I want a gossamer gown, I want

to be a queen, addressing the

nation -- keep it together, children

I want a crown

I want children

to put on a play-party, you be

an alligator, that roars, you

be an eagle, that soars,

you be a bat or a snake -- No,

a bumblebee sitting on a garden

rake, we'll all be in the grass

in the sun, growling squawking

flapping our arms, until the

queen arrives to calm wild spirits

and make peace in the animal

kingdom, maybe she's mother

nature

maybe she's our mother wearing

a tilted crown in heaven

maybe she's an old lady

stuck / parked in a rest home
stay, just a little bit longer

and the workers don't care

and the relatives don't care

and she doesn't care

if this is it, the end

the waiting room for eternity

the mayor wears his sash

and yells into the megaphone

then he goes home

his kids are playing loud

annoying pretend games

he sits in the kitchen with a Michelob

and watches her majesty on TV.

The Quarantine Chronicles, Day 31

DAY 31: Palm Sunday, little ol'

Jesus on a donkey riding into

town but there is not another

human being around --

he can see lots of washing hung

out to dry, so there are obviously

women, yet he sees none, he

talks about it with his ass:

Is there some kind of plague

like in the days of Moses --

a sea of poison snakes or

everyone covered in boils,

flesh-eating boils, making all

the beautiful people hideous

beyond description -- is every-

one hiding inside because

they think I'm infected, I'm

a stranger not a virus

carrier, and here in town

will I meet my buddies, have

a few brews, maybe play

poker before Herod strings me

up -- he might want to wash

his hands, wash his hands

(for at least 20 seconds) of the

whole thing, the virus bring,
the message of universal love,

he-rod might give me a crown

of gold or of thorns depending

whether or not he believes

as do the rest that I carry

the crown, the corona,

the coronavirus.

Hosanna!

The Quarantine Chronicles, Day 30

DAY 30: Who, who out there, who

in here, in our apartment

building, of eighteen families, who

is having trouble eating, no nutrition 
in hot air and proclamations, after

losing a job or never having one,

who, who goes hungry today? The 
teachers and cops and retirees and 
doctors are okay, they get paid, poor people 
with an extended family are okay, they share,

it is the Eleanor Rigbys, the Father

McKenzies that sit alone with

the TV on and a bowl of pastina

in broth, before getting undressed

for bed at nine, their gray hair roots

showing, they say their prayers then

mid-morning they call both

their friends each day like clockwork

until they get: "I can't talk right

now. I'll call you back." When

the feverish wheezing starts they might

call a neighbor -- maybe us -- or an

ambulance, get a swab from a friendly 
physician, wait for the results in bed, days 
pass -- COVID DAYS -- wondering how they 
got the novel coronavirus if they never went out

except to the grocer and pharmacy.

Then they get hallucinations of life

on a farm, a beautiful child-

hood of play and adventure

that they never had, running

through fields of flowers, the

sweet smell overwhelming.