'One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star'- Nietzsche
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by John K. Hawkins

 

I like to think of Corona

as Paul Revere’s bugle,

laughing at us as, a fugal

reminder of what we choose to ignore

at our peril. Imagine, if you will,

Climate Change as a virus

we wake up to like meerkats, as one,

alert, ready, filled with protocols,

the Press on it, every story angled,

the world in kumbaya lock-down,

each of us quarantined against each other,

in self-isolation, mobilized

to be immobile, pretty much

like any other day, but now

the message is the massage,

and, if you thought about it,

we are keened to defend our turf.

 

I like to think of Corona

as a collective unconscious archetype

come roaring to life like

the Notre Dame forest fire with no insurance,

the gold-dipped crown of thorns rescued by the 1%,

and bringing clarity everywhere,

and when you think about it, if you do,

we’re blessed hosts to a thousand viruses, and

bacteria up the yin-yang,

eaten alive by time in a kind of trans

-substantiation and -migration

of cellular souls, always

in circulation, please, sir,

I want some more.

 

I like to think of Corona

as a terrestrial soul,

which is more than you can say for us,

if science is right and

we came from outer space, giant

viruses ourselves, kick-starting evolution,

neither alive nor not-alive catalysts

for membranes, and our brains, too,

science says, are viral emanations —

frisson je nais se quoi

lit-up Gauloisse-smoking jellyfish

that have no real place on Earth,

(or Paris for that matter)

and Corona knows it.

 

I like to think of Corona

when I watch old films like The Blob

that warn us of something —

herpes, Reds, the aliens in us all;

and The Andromeda Strain, where science says

humans are skid marks in the skivvies of the cosmos, and

The Matrix, where Agent Smith calls us out,

and the Twilight Zone “Cookbook” episode. It’s not like

we didn’t have fair warning,

as Corona established her dominion

like a virus within a virus

and wiped that smirk away

from the pussy-grabber’s face.

Man, the Knuckle Head

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