Eleven oh one: late! yanked
from the zone by dual alarms
snoozed on laptop and phone
! Do Not Skip Self Care !
Fifty nine min remain
to purge from this shell
secret deskwork sins written in
crumb on crumpled wrappers —
instruments of crime uncaught,
slid underhand into wastecans
At five-two stride from locker room.
Crusty Nikes brood in putrid
stink — sprints last week
soaked through socks, testament
to martyr’s commitment
In down-dog begin sweeping stretches
set to tunes crafted for building heat,
on to welded steel tools strapped by
pulley-bound rubber; keep devout
pace, display concentrated face
I’m a white man battling to avoid infection while most of the US stops giving a shit about my health and safety. Boy do I have it hard. Maybe other people can empathize with my story? I started writing an article, but I confused myself. Now I’m not sure who I am.
Here are ten struggles from my life. Is this list what it’s like to be me, a conscientious social distancer in 2020? Or is this what it’s like to be black, indigenous, or a person of color (BIPOC) at any time in history? Please help! …
The second of Brent Whitman’s weekly Social Distancing Front Porch Raves is planned to be held Saturday afternoon for the Estates at the Windmore neighborhood, within city curfew hours.
The first event was a surprise success, according to resident Rebecca Calloway.
“Brent pumped these amazing Chicago house tracks from the veranda while his life partner, Skye, poured homemade kombucha and entertained us with spinning poi and hula hooping. It was a little slice of Burning Man at home!”
Neighbors were seen dancing in the street, which they blocked off for the event, with beer and cocktails while their children played…
3 AM again—
do you miss touch yet?
Or are you so far past that memory you don’t care
if you ever feel another’s skin again?
…a new hand sliding up your thigh…
Are you now numb to the sense of goosebumps awakening delight in the center of your pelvis, delight that spreads so fast — a shock wave from some chakric detonation spilling out your sacrum racing up your spine, lightning from a lake savaging your heart into sudden quickness illuminating your retinas with flashing visions of heat scenes of limbs writhing in union, of genital rapture, of mouth…
Iam eating myself again. I started with the fingernails, then the cuticles. Now the mind. I am miserable with need. I hate myself, and that hatred makes me all the needier.
I’m staring at my phone, thumb poised to send a text to 17 people. How much is too much to ask? Who is safe to include in this list? If nobody responds, or if they all say they’re already busy and care for me and hope for the best, what will I do? Should I share more, tell them I’m starting to wonder if I should kill myself? …