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
Earth,
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
best revenge
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
white-rimmed eyeballs.
gonepublic: philosophy, politics, & public life 
“And the people stayed home. And read books, and listened, and rested, and exercised, and made art, and played games, and learned new ways of being, and were still. And listened more deeply. Some meditated, some prayed, some danced. Some met their shadows. And the people began to think differently. And the people healed. And, in the absence of people living in ignorant, dangerous, mindless, and heartless ways, the earth began to heal. And when the danger passed, and the people joined together again, they grieved their losses, and made new choices, and dreamed new images, and created new ways to live and heal the earth fully, as they had been healed.” ~Kitty O’Meara