I am uninspired,
a little broken, a little sad, and
trepidatious, undone by my mother
wondering if I can write poetry,
but I suppose I already am. This
is a long poem,
interrupted by news flashes and news holes.
Barrenness. Grape purpleness, a virus
ravaging people all over the
and there’s not much I can do. The
best I can do is nothing.
Don’t leave the house. Maybe
stay in this little nook of the
house, with my microwave and
big white fridge, with my French
press and small jar of sweetener.
Maybe doing nothing is the
against a microbial virus with
the fucking gall
to do this to us all
and a moronic president
hoping for full pews on Easter.
That’s not my Easter
you son of a bitch
Take that in your eye, in your
orange morass of hair and