Coronavirus Christmas.
Damned if you so much as move a muscle.
Glued to your chair
You watch movies and play the games
You bought yourself to compensate
For Christmas joy lost years ago.
Now, it feels as if the last bit of good feeling
Clinging to a vestige of a burning ember
Has finally been snuffed out.
The fireplace is a cold abyss
Where nothing special exists
And all is gray, routine, static:
A wall of televisions advertizing
Products you won’t acknowledge you need.
Santa’s corpse animated by spiders
Plants wants in your head
None of which correspond to what’s really important.
You spend Christmas with a sore tailbone
Sitting for hours in the chair you managed to salvage
From the bedbug infestation of 2019.
There’s a Christmas tree in your apartment.
It’s been set up since last holiday
And hasn’t been turned on in all that time.
Your ex gave it to you.
You broke up with her in August
Because she stopped having sex with you.
Sometimes you miss her, but then you remind yourself
That she supports fascism like a good country girl.
The book she gave you still sits wrapped in plastic on your shelf
The stuffed monkey and the silver heart with the key
Are both somewhere, but you don’t pay them much mind.
Was she anything more to you than a cuddle toy?
You ponder this sometimes as you lie awake at night.
Christmas reminds you of the people in your life:
Some of them gone and some still here.
The ones who will join you for a night on the town
After one simple phone call are the ones you should keep.
But what remains of the town
Now that Coronavirus has blown everyone’s hopes to pieces?
Restaurants here and there feel like lifelines tossed
But Starbucks still refuses to bring back indoor dining
And that, for you, is the ultimate boon.
Your livelihood depended on working in public
Without that you’re nothing but a typical welfare case
Squandering your check on indulgent things
While giving nothing back and proving your aunt right.
“Your writing career is nothing but a personal interest
And no one will take you seriously until you get a real job.”
You could work from home, but it conflicts with your conditioning
Working at school and coming home to play was always the way you lived your life.
Now almost thirty-three, old habits are ingrained; much harder to kill than roaches and weeds
And that was okay before Coronavirus hit and your story collection sank like a boulder.
Then you tried to write a novel, and that failed too, but now you’re no longer on your own.
You’ve got friends in high places in the publishing world
Who can help you succeed in this rigged fucking game.
Coronavirus may have delayed some things, but it won’t be long before the tables turn
And you’ll be writing a new novel each and every year
With an agent and a sizeable publishing deal.
One day Coronavirus will die
And on that day you will sing and dance in the joyful light of the sun
Beaming down on a world cleansed of sickness.
Where conventions and rock concerts will happen once again.
This reality will be here before you know it
This reality exists right around the bend.
According to the mystics, it is here already,
But your mortal mind hasn’t realized it yet.
The promised existence where Coronavirus is dead
The holy time when we serve Coronavirus its own head
On a platter and dine at restaurants without masks
Walk the streets without masks
Go to the mall and sports stadiums and music venues without masks
And hug one another as freely as water flows and fills our cups
And be free to stand as close to one another as we want with no masks to fog up our glasses
And rejoice in a summer without death and distance
A summer with libraries open again
Where you can work on your novel from noon to nine
And reap the satisfaction that is rightfully yours
Which was taken from you and is soon to be restored
Praise be unto the day you leave your cave of boredom
Holy will be the time you can finally resume your pursuit of stardom
That time is not now, but it will be here soon
When it arrives, you will fall down and worship it like a child born of a virgin womb
You will kiss its head and stroke its cheek
You will admire the meekness of the sounds it makes
The television news broadcasting the end of Coronavirus
The television news saying masks are no longer a requirement
You’ll rip off your damned mask and throw it in a fire pit
And watch the flames consume the paranoia
And the smoke spiral into the starry sky.
Welcome to the garden of the jellyfish! 