Stay at Home, Day 24

Friday, April 10, 2020

My radio producer friend said she misses wordless connection, the wordless presence of other people.
My community organizer friend said, “I miss people,” and I responded, “People miss U.”
My poet friend said time is moving fast/slow because we are IN PLACE like a gridlock next to the Autobahn.

Stay at Home, Day 23

Thursday, April 9, 2020

Contrary to what my poet friend believes, I am not one of the immortals.
Instead, I am what the NIH calls “morbidly obese” and that comes with sweating.
I think I’ve seen myself this way as long as I can remember, and so I became it.

I can’t figure out how time is moving so fast and so slow simultaneously.
The abandoned rock pile in the park across the street keeps changing shape.
The two pigeons are together on Mariposa Street every day, I don’t know since when.

I heard a crash and a cry for help but when I looked over the fence, no one was there.
For some reason I got angry at the back neighbor for reacting so hysterically.
I checked on the next-door neighbor; he was fine, but hidden behind his screen door.

As I’m writing this, I keep thinking of my journalist friend’s joyful young son.
When I visited them last summer, he kept playing in the mud and crawling on the earth.
I hope with every part of me that he’s the immortal, that he can become.

Stay at Home, Day 19

Sunday, April 5, 2020

It’s understandable to feel cheated out of what would have been our time together.
Maybe we just got a weird and unexpected head start at what’s next.
You asked: But you said this for what? I said: Catharsis.

I spent a long time curled up in a ball on the couch today, staring out the backyard window.
I can’t remember trying so hard to empty my mind of responsibility, to let myself be still.
The dog came to me unprompted, bunted the couch, touched his nose to my hand, and wagged.

Stay at Home, Day 18

Saturday, April 4, 2020

Give me chicken koobideh and halved tomatoes, chargrilled on seekhs right over the open coals.
Serve it on top of basmati rice, yellowed from saffron, with a hunk of socarrat on the bottom.
Take me to your parents’s backyard in the spring of 2001, when your house was my house a few months before all our worlds burned.