Sunday, August 9, 2020

Quarantine Haikus

Quarantine Haikus
Sunday, August 9, 2020
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The Cat

Doug, the cat wants out
Yes I know he just came in
But now he wants out

Morning

Doug, you woke up late
I drank three cups of green tea
Let the cat out, thanks.

Afternoon

The meeting drags on
The cat howls by the door
Stop talking, everyone

Evening

Where is the remote?
Can’t you keep it in one place?
Look under the cat

We’ve Run Out of Toilet Paper

The roll is empty
How much do you people shit?
Replace it next time.

Texas

Delayed reaction
Cost your peoples’ live thousands
But you repeat it

Election

Home of the disease
Land of the sick and dying
Small hands man will win

The Cat Part II

Charlotte sleeps in chair
Another borrowed day borrowed
I love you, don’t go

Armadillos

Ripping up my yard
Stop digging holes you fuckers
Prehistoric dicks

Raccoons

Big weary mother
Leads greedy fur balls to feed
I know that look well

Possums

Stripes around his eyes
Looks like eyeliner, we call
Him Ziggy Stardust

Blue Jays

Get out of my yard
Crackling and shitting in trees
Feathered gremlin dicks

Stereo System

I am sorry babe
I am such a selfish jerk
Keep your stereo

Teens

They sleep until noon
Wake up hungry for Starbucks
We have food at home


- EP, 8-9-2020
Monday, August 3, 2020

Fourteen on Wednesday

Fourteen on Wednesday
Monday, August 3, 2020
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For Kaya

what is it like to come of age in a plague?

you’ve grown another inch no one can see,
dug in as you are in your corner of the apocalypse,
your skateboard propped against your bed
collecting cobwebs since June, a bed unmade, sporadic
murals bulge from the walls coded with colors you
can barely comprehend.

what is it like to be a pupa forming its final shape
a million changes happening at once
while the world pauses with a gasping breath?

July trickles into August it’s all the same
100 degrees bleeds into sleep and another disease eats through our dreams and takes hold.
paralyzed thoughts cough in rooms desperate to break free
but the airlines are on life support and the parks are empty.
another store collapses and announces We’re Closing
while under the 290 bridge the homeless camp fills to capacity.

you fold your knees into your chest and say, “mom
I am so anxious, and I don’t know why”

lately you hug me more, reach out to me more,
curl fetal-shaped beside me, your head against my shoulder,
as if instinctively knowing the days are growing thin and
a train is coming to take you to destinations unknown.

not long now you will turn off your phone when it rings my tone
and press your face against the skin of a girl not your kin, and
only then will those bold colors devouring
your space have meaning.

But not now, not in this plague
Not when every day hundreds enter the grave
and call it home and the politicians shake their heads
and the nurses break down exhausted in supply closets and the
experts warn us this is not the end, this is only the first wave.

You say you want to believe in God again
I ask if you want to go to church
I begin, “I know a place…”
you shake your head and say
“I would rather believe in him in my own way”
as you look ahead at the dark stain of your sister
walking toward us in the afternoon.
shadows collect around her face,
a finicky moon in its most turbulent phase
pretty soon you will match her shadow
pretty soon, but not today.

what is it like to come of age in a plague?

you pack up your bags and go.
in the distance blue jays
are dive bombing butterflies,
your sister puts her ear buds in but you don’t notice.
august trickles into another august and the day is
over but it is just beginning
as the sun envelops you with open arms.

-- 8/3/2020

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