Media Journalist During COVID-19

i work for
the new york
times, or politico
or fox, or
cnn, or any
of the flat
screened word factories
that exist to
educate, speculate, divide
conquer the masses
fixated on their
iphones, ipads, laptops

so we guess
about escalating death
rates, about what
has already gone
wrong, and all
the things we
still don’t know
about ventilators and
arrogant millennials, and
west virginians who
are not impacted
by our hysteria

but we keep
typing and posting
because we must
capitalize on all
the eyeballs stuck
at home, sheltering
in our sentences
and photos, following
our every word
about economy on
the brink of
massive global recession

and when this
finally ends, how
many lives will
we take, who
will count the
minutes that were
spent reading and
reading, and scrolling
hours of time
we robbed from
the worried, who
should’ve known better

Internet Will Save Us

It used to be just books,
parchment and a quill,
perhaps the trunk of an
old oak tree for support

during pauses to reflect
on words, cradling novel’s
spine. This was before the
nothing of everything, lurking

images, news, videos, email,
promising connection to a
world of always distraction,
attempts to evade our depth,

knowing that internet will save
us from ourselves, but the longer
we stare into that flat abyss,
the more we disappear.

Making Sense of Time Passing

Usually the plan is to
read and read and read

the poems of others, until
something strikes my imagination.

This often works, sometimes it is
just a word, like pulsating or

scramble, a pathway to completely
forget that my shoelaces are tied or

that these fingers belong to me.
Lost in the moment, obvious and

unpoetic, then again, also true.
That really so much writing is just

abstract painting, adding color,
a swirl, skip a line, then do it again,

and again, until the crickets outside
sound like laptop keys, and nothing

is lost, not these seconds, not the
clear air of night, not my quiet mind

making sense of time passing,
time passing.