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.

The Quarantine Chronicles, Day 29

DAY 29: I've never died, not even

once, though I may have gotten close,

so, maybe I'm just saying

maybe I'm

immortal.

How would I know? Just

because lots of people have

died and many are dying now

doesn't mean, logically, that I must.

Okay, it's likely, but not certain.

So, I could do many things,

collect knowledge like an

encyclopedia or collect

experiences -- hang-gliding,

glacier dog-sledding, eating

live worms, running every

marathon, until someone

anyone begs me for sex -- like 

some lonely stinking rich

loser, Branson What's-his-name

Nah. I could be president. Nah

and hell Nah. I could rescue

the world. Nah.

(doesn't deserve it).

Actually if I knew I were immortal

I would hide, never tell a soul

and move frequently, so no one

could see that I don't age -- no

significant others, that's the

condition. You get everything

you want

except anything of

value.

An unimportant life, longing

-- they say -- for an end to

give it backwards meaning

longing for death, even suffering

choking in pain, gasping

-- alone, like a victim of

a terrible plague.

The Quarantine Chronicles, Day 28

DAY 28: My face to the world, I

showed only one for twenty years

one wry smile knowing and

mad I kept the same face folded in a

book, then yesterday I updated

I produced a new face to the

world, a new wryness madness

without knowing the folks out there

who would take it as a sign that

my heart my arms are open

for business, messages like

shots in the dark, ricocheting like numbers

on the spinning wheel, greetings

and warmth into the arctic

winter, because I cracked my

egg and let my penguin chick

furball out to cry a squeaky

song, they it came to me -- five ten

fifteen -- and I did not ignore

or reject (as is my old style)

I welcomed new friends into my study

like students on a video-call

come share with me, I am

no longer afraid of the other,

I may die soon -- that I'm afraid

of -- but as I am alive, I will

respond, I will replicate, I

will join the human circus

the carnival, for one queasy

go on the ferris wheel, the

only wheel in town.

The Quarantine Chronicles, Day 27

DAY 27: [WE WIN. 1,100 IN ONE 

DAY IN THE GOOD OL' U.S.A.]

Everything's fine, everything's

fine, until it's not, you gonna

believe me, Jim Jones or your

lyin' fake eyes, white face

black face white face black

you sure look funny wearin'

that mask.

You got numbers, boy, do I got

numbers for you -- your husband

wife children parents neighbors

friends doctors nurses grocers --

numbers going up or down

is this the Dow, is the Dow

up? What's the number? Of

recovered, of beds empty or

occupied, of masks to cover

the horror, the number of

people on stage, how many

centimeters apart, how

many times a day can I walk

around this same block?

I'm not feeling too good

is that number the dead

up to now or predicted

in my country or worldwide

or the corpses right by my side

thrown on a pile

thrown into a hole

-- the Dow's up though

the family tree down

broken burnt diseased

now dead -- count me out.

The Quarantine Chronicles, Day 26

DAY 26: Actresses, journalists and

intellectuals -- ghosts of fantasies

imagined women walking from room

to room how they move through one

another because they are ghosts

of the cotton-candy of a lazy mind.

I see myself in the wings, checking

my tie, I walk up to the lectern

the podium, counting my steps

lay down my notes and begin

to speak with casual opening

remarks before getting into the

tragic substance of death, death,

more death -- pain, weeping,

loss, forever -- now.

My cat is a real thing calling

my name, a living being to

remind me of heat, breathing

heartbeat, I lower my nose

into its neck to find comfort

in the feel and smell of warm

fur and the feedback the

reciprocation the answer to

all questions -- yes, you exist

in the real world, you are

whole, worthy and loved if

only by a fellow creature

who doesn't understand but

understands better than you.

The Quarantine Chronicles, Day 25

DAY 25: I live on a hill

in a fifth-floor apartment

I haven't been outside in 25+ days

I look down and out the window

-- cats

I look up and across the straits

-- seagulls.

Seagulls and cats

they like the peace

no traffic, no disturbance

they get enough to eat

the females are in heat

the males follow them around

I see quiet cats looking down

asleep on the tin-roofs of shacks

jumping on parked cars

leaving a paw-mark on the dust

their lives are better, more generous

thanks to our disappearance.

The seagulls soar, dip and

dive for plentiful fish snacks

squawk whenever they like

they can hear one another's

voice again, no they don't recall

a time when all was this easy

peaceful, natural, lovely

free -- the young have no

idea how things once were.

So, the only sounds I hear outside right now

are cat steps and gull wing flaps --

oh, no, there goes another ambulance.

The Quarantine Chronicles, Day 24

DAY 24: Self-preservation / self-

mutilation, we swing baby

swing low, to and fro

there's a wartime firing squad

outside the front door, I'm sure

it's there, my wife, thin frail

so beautiful in a cotton dress,

cannot stand to be

caged, to feel hunger and

sleep-deprivation, to hear

babies cry, she cannot calm

them, she is hysterical, throwing

objects, which she says helps, it doesn't

help, we wouldn't have a plate

if we had food.

-- I can't take it anymore!

-- no, don't, you'll be killed,

I can't lose you too but

because free will and mercy prevail

she runs screaming out the door into

a shower of bullets, falls

and covers the pavement with

blood.

the woman I love

mother to my children

I couldn't stop her

I tried, she wouldn't listen

-- go out, I said, and you die

-- I don't care, she said, I can't

take another minute of this.

now what?

do I run out too?

can I mourn here in the dark stall?

am I glad to be alive?

swing, baby, swing.