Poetry and a Truth

I ran into Morgan at the Trader Joe’s in Hollywood in the frozen pizza aisle the day before everything shut down. It was only a little bit chaotic because even during panic buying, the Trader Joe’s in Hollywood isn’t even a third as wild as any given New York Trader Joe’s on a regular ass Wednesday afternoon. My cart was full of frozen pizzas. Morgan’s cart was full of flowers and wine. “I don’t know what to get because I don’t know what we’re preparing for, or for how long,” she said. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.

Everyone I talked to was scared of a potential travel ban so everyone was leaving. Mike had just moved to Austin to be with family and Jenny had just moved back to New York to be with family and Tazbah had just moved back to Bishop to be with family and Drea had just moved back to San Diego to be with family. In those first two weeks of uncertainty while I (and most people) were waiting to see if they developed symptoms, the list of which seemed to expand every day, I did YouTube exercise videos and read on Instagram Live during the day and played Nintendo Switch while watching High Maintenance over pasta and White Claws at night. New articles with bad science journalism, but absolute opinions, came out on the hour. Could you get it outside? Could you get it from singing? Were we ever going to eat butts again? Every day was ten days. Every day was another day I mentally marked off on the calendar, another day since I’d been within six feet of somebody or another day since I’d been to the movies or in the studio or at the bookstore. Oh, and then there was the fun little exercise of mistaking the Rona for regular shit. Is this a muscle ache because of the Rona, or because I’m sore from working out for AN HOUR every day? Is this shortness of breath because of the Rona, or because of anxiety from living through A GLOBAL PANDEMIC? Is this a chill because of the Rona, or because I’m DRINKING A GLASS OF COLD WATER NAKED IN MY LIVING ROOM WITH THE FUCKING FAN ON? Joe answered all my questions with, “We simply don’t have the data.” I cried in therapy, telling Dr. John I just wanted someone to tell me what was dangerous and what was safe.

Then I got a group email from Nalini saying she wanted to get a bunch of us poets on a Zoom call to read to each other. A poem of our own and maybe a poem from someone else. I almost cancelled. Like, poetry? In a global pandemic? In a severe economic downturn? Fuck that shit. But I went. There were maybe twelve of us in the room. Everybody read. I felt it. Poetry and honesty. Poetry and a clarity of feeling. Poetry and a truth. I needed something so badly to be true. It filled me, and believe you me, in the absence of dick, I really need to be filled with something lol. I need clarity and truth and I need honesty. And if I’m being real, Catapult is paying poets for the poems, and I think it’s really important to pay writers for their work, especially in the midst of bleak financial times.

So fast-forward to this moment in this global pandemic after curfew and the tank on my street and the helicopters circling my block and donating to various bail funds and the rally I went to this afternoon organized by the Little Bangladesh Youth Group and kids holding signs like “Little Bangladesh for Black Lives” at the intersection trying to get cars to honk and the protest in Liberty Park the day before and the day before and the day before and the day before and eating double cheeseburgers in Morgan’s yard and this strawberry margarita starting to hit and I literally can’t remember the last time I wore deodorant: I hope you like this poetry series. I hope it fills you with something. Be safe.

• 0