Love and Wonderwheeling in a Time of Corona

I’m not going to lie.
From a solipsistic perspective
and point of view,
it’s been pretty damned sweet.
Nowhere to be,
no timeclocks clogging and vicegripping
the rhythms, movements and pulse
of each day’s choiceless unfolding,
an unflagging sense
of innate vagrancy
merging harmoniously
with rituals of my own making.
This, in certain respects, is the life I always dreamed of:
nights and days comprising writing, meditation, exercise,
loveplay, walking, reading, eating, movie-watching, and other strains
of goofing around.
It’s like I swallowed a piece of the moon,
and it’s now stuck in my chest like a lightning-bug
beaconing warmly round my heart and making me a tad loony
and happy-crazy.
I feel like Walt Whitman wearing electric underwear.
Juiced, blessed, grateful,
slotted in a state of resignation and passivity.
Is this my most natural way of being in this world?
I have no desire to join any cyber-groups, or to become a part
of the makeshift virtual society that has so quickly sprung up
to give people new platforms, forums, hang-outs, watering holes
of social value.
Is this what Henry Miller meant when he zealously trumpeted—
“I have no money, no resources, no hopes. I am the happiest man alive.”
To not have to be anything, or be anywhere, to not coil the length of days
according to a turnstile revolution of arrivals and departures,
to be fully and wholly engaged in reality as an amorphic playscape,
and yourself its protean playmate, to enjoy it, things, as they are.
Sometimes a part of me says I should feel guilty for enjoying my life
in times of duress and crisis, and yet I cannot abide this voice,
or rather it pales in comparison to the sense and feeling that acceptance
of circumstances and finding enjoyment within those circumstances
is churchless devotion to Universal Lore, to that which is cosmic opera
and existential drama, while cultivating space for wonder, zest and freeform
play to enter.
Everyone lives within their own house of mirrors, and has their own relationship dynamic with the reflections which busy and occupy us all.
Beyond the house of mirrors, there’s that marvelous prevailing rumor and promise of nothing,
a void unreflected.
Between the house of mirrors and reaming void, I am choosing to dance like a lunatic,
laugh like a madman, and spraypaint scripts and lyrics into thin air with a rubber hose
made from Gorgon scales and Sesame Street leftovers.
Why the hell not? I am here now. Grateful as a fool at the cliff’s beckoning edge.

About John Biscello

Originally from Brooklyn, NY, writer, poet, spoken word performer, and playwright, John Biscello now lives in Taos, New Mexico. He is the author of three novels: Broken Land, a Brooklyn Tale, Raking the Dust, and Nocturne Variations, and a collection of stories, Freeze Tag. His fiction and poetry has appeared in: Art Times, nthposition, The Wanderlust Review, Ophelia Street, Caper, Polyphony, Dilate, Militant Roger, Chokecherries, Farmhouse, BENT, The 555 Collective, Instigator, Brass Sopaipilla, The Iconoclast, Adobe Walls, Kansas City Voices, and the Tishman Review. His blog--Notes of an Urban Stray--can be read at johnbiscello.blogspot.com. Broken Land, a Brooklyn Tale was named Underground Book Reviews 2014 Book of the Year.
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