Day 24: Who Ordered the Rubicon?

I am caught in a little blue house near the heart of this little locked-down flyover town tonight, gripped feverishly in the back-current alleyways of a solitary quarantined life barely lived.  The night hits hard on the tail-end vibrations of another sickly day.  A day where the counted bodies rose higher than the spring sunshine pushing back down in a fever-birth reawakening of a springing season spent socially-distanced in the green City of Wayne. My seclusions here had a healthy head-start, beginning back in the middle of March when the order came for the bars and restaurants to close their doors to the rhythmic footsteps of a parade of patrons pandering for a little bit of distraction or maybe just a little bit of fun.  When …

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Day 20: Morning Tea

I sat all through the isolated night of another numbered day and waited for the quarantined morning to rise out over the sickly and fearful City of Wayne.  I waited with smoke-filled eyes, blinking hot and red, not from an underlying undiagnosed infection, but from self-imposed sleepless anticipation and lingering artistic nervousness.  I waited with smokey breath, listing and rough, not in dire need of a mechanical ventilator’s push, but rather from the damp warning kiss of a new morning being born before me. This little locked-down flyover town remains somewhat the same, still somehow in ill-advised touch with its original rhythm and pulse, pumping and pushing on through the breaking light of a new day dawning.  It seemed, briefly, as it always was, a deception …

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House of Bullshit

House. Land. Property. Ownership. The ubiquitous american dream. Hunter went all the way to Las Vegas to find it, up on that little hill, with the right kind of eyes. My parents’ generation fought first to fuck it all up, then later to passively-aggressively nurse it all back to health. My generation lost it, though we had precious little claim on it from the beginning.

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