Quarintude

What day is it?  What time is it?  What year is it?  And who ate all the damn Coco Puffs?  The quarantine is growing hazy.  Like desert delusions after a fifth of cheap tequila with a gila monster bite chaser.  I'm not even sure I can finger an F chord anymore.  Not that I ever really could.  Whatever wisdom I had before has slipped out through a hole in my back pocket.  Not the cool hole worn by the old Copenhagen can.  But the dreadful hole. The hole worn by the modern addiction.  The cell phone.  Or the smart phone. Or whatever the hell they call it now.  It's simply the leash.  The leash that keeps us forever in touch, and in so doing, chokes back our imagination and keeps our dreams from truly wandering.  They try.  Dreams are determined little bastards.  But the dreaded device brings them ever crashing back to earth with a ping or an update or message or a like or some other bullshit none of us need but somehow now can't seem to live without. I'm gonna go strum my guitar for awhile.  Hope the wood from this one-time tree still can pump out a little oxygen.  Cuz I been huffing the current reality for far too long now. 

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