Want to see you in a mask and nothing else, including your conscience.
Social distancing is one thing, but an ocean between us keeps me hungry and stoic like Abraham Lincoln addicted to heroin.
Truth be told when it comes to you I hardly know what I’m saying. It has something to do with an Acme Safe and my cartoon brain going on hiatus.
I exist in the grey areas where viruses and miracles both feed.
We’re all parasites and our caste systems don’t look all that different in the last gasps of a dying sun.
I can’t stop thinking about the riots and how I need to get out there and take a rubber bullet or even a real one if I roll snake eyes.
I know I supposedly have white on my side, but that gives me little comfort because I’ll never be able to wrap my head around a human being kneeling on another human being’s neck for eight minutes and 46 seconds while three other officers stand by, doing absolutely nothing to stop it.
My mind is racing all around wondering where Pavlov has gone and if he might have gotten Covid-19 and expired.
You, Bowie and perhaps some Prince at the end of the night as we party like its 1999 and everything around us burns to the burning ground.