Journal
Dispatches and speculations from the American roadside.
Space
And so much space there’s nothing to think about except something resembling god.
Lung
Dig the old lady who cut a tiny hole into her surgical mask so she can keep smoking her Benson & Hedges.
Park
We wear bandanas and scarves across our mouths like a haphazard gang or makeshift religion.
Sound
Sirens and cheers, these are the sounds that shape our days.
Prediction
I thought I’d devote my energies to becoming pure and benedictine, brand new and all-seeing. Instead I scroll and refresh.
Doubt
Now they’re saying the virus spreads by talking and breathing. We can kill each other just by being a person.
Passing
Passing each other on the sidewalk, we hold our breaths like children in a graveyard.
Shake
Don’t shake out your dirty laundry, the television says. You might release a viral cloud.
Cheer
There’s the guy I’ve always wondered about, the one across the street who leaves big chunks of bread on the fire escape for the pigeons.
Grid
Meanwhile, I’m reverting to the diet of a five-year-old. All I want to eat are peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
Conspiracy
Each headline is more disorienting than the last, and these pandemic days are breeding baroque conspiracies.
Mojo
Every night the Electrifying Mojo would sign off with the same message and I want us to hear it in our heads now, delivered in a slow baritone with a grin around the edges.