Northern California

Operator

Earlier as I was driving down Griffith Park Blvd., I was dreaming of a magic carpet with an operator, someone to transport me around, a better option than driving or walking when I'm feeling more inclined for a stretcher with everything going on with everyone everywhere all the time in

America, though of course a magic carpet with or without an operator would be preferable to being carried on a stretcher by multiple people. The closest I've ever come to being carted off is after passing out and becoming unresponsive on a family road trip at age 12 or so, somewhere in Georgia, which is what happens to people from New York in Georgia, I've heard told, and/or to people on family road trips. I remember regaining consciousness to see

a man in white running at me with a wheelchair and urgent eyes, the mouth of the ER door 20 feet behind him gaping open overbright against fading daylight.

A Circle

An unquenchable crush in
quarantine just makes sense, these
feelings just become casualties
of these times yet continue to override
any other thought I have about
anything or anyone, a circle
I can't close

Not a Fan, 2020

Not a fan of retreads

Not a fan of careerists in government who have never
run in, let alone won, an election

Not a fan of any clique that refuses to relinquish control, even
a clique I like

Not a fan of their wealth, which makes for bad governance

Not a fan of their self-importance

Not a fan of their hierarchical mindsets, their
comfort with misspending other peoples' money, people
who work much harder than them

Not a fan of their incessant one-way
communication at me, or their misogyny

Not a fan of fandom, or being ordered to talk a certain way or
else about someone who could give a damn
about me or anybody but himself, the usual template

for our American figureheads, who are delusional enough
to declare themselves role models, to
posture as leaders toward people they are looting