Creative Journaling

1/18/21 Poem for Mother Earth Incarnate Ishtar

Pandemic; a wonderland whisked in pop smoke of Baby Grow Goo and Wand-A-Visions; Circumsized by why I have to sit home and eat pi. I saw her! Ishtar; the girl whom which Taurus lows; the site of prose for which Mars rose and walked the road. 1/18/21; I received my John Dough letter though.

Corrupt and skeptic was I before pandemic; it’s now just timeless septic to the p.c. correctness; not c.p. directness; and free speech means nothing. It’s the art of the start-up; as Things fall Apart. Sup?

Years spent perfecting automation so we can bunker broke in masturbation while the government watches; hesitation to paint me black to save their nations. I’m Atom you’re Eve, do I know you? No relation. Man know thyself; is there a book of creation? No it’s been aborted; but be rest assured for the here we’re supported…

Like the land of ohm we pursue just ice. I’m chicken soup; last syllable rice; immune systems go; my way or the Huawei; Funk zero G why not ask for 5G? A month? Uncle Sam can you spare a tear; Let us eat cake? Whoa you’re never there! Never-mind Love; M.O.V.E. ? Do you even care? Lady liberty’s stillborn’s serving life for the chair with different shades of justice; either apple or Au pair; it says free choice not free voice. My voice doesn’t sell because I don’t play with hell; and my mind, body, soul and intentions were well.

The wall of sound died Yesterday. I must imagine; It’s a dream famine; A nightmare that Innana kissed me from heaven. Onto aligning chakras and daily meditations…

(About a 2nd date from O.K. Cupid turned into a new identity, The pandemic, and the horrors of social isolation)

Maurice A. Charles is an actor, writer, and poet. He reflects on his experiences on this medium.