The eye of Zeta

Are you staying or going? I can’t decide, which means it looks like I’m staying. At times like this, it helps to be told what to do. At least to have a guiding hand to follow or reject. But there isn’t one here. So I guess I’m staying.

It’s both…

It rains for thirty minutes and the alley is underwater again because there’s nowhere really for the water to go. The ground’s soaked from weeks of rain, the catch basin is full, and downhill isn’t a concept that exists for miles.

I’ve got nowhere to be, but say I do…

When I get like this, I know how to make myself better. I know that writing helps. Even better is to call a friend — you especially. A walk and run helps too. A decent meal if someone else cooks. Water, vegetables, and a bit of sunlight. …

It’s tempting to say there’s a light at the end of the tunnel, but there’s not, just an idea of light. A whisper of blue in the dark. A moment where you’re awake and it’s still night outside, but your body’s not going to let you fall back asleep.

So…

What is there to say? The current moment is an infinitely-headed hydra of chaos and despair. There are so many personal hardships, profane statistics, and carpet-bombing judgment ready to lay on a populace made up of ordinary demons and angels and everyone in between. It’s exhausting and debilitating.

Yet the…

Because modern American capitalism inversely values salary with social benefit, for two years I drove Uber and Lyft to supplement my wages as an English professor at the local community college.

Now that Mardi Gras has wound down and I’ve settled into a new, full-time gig, I thought I’d write…

I’ve been thinking lately about the small choices I’ve made that, without intention, have built a life for myself. I don’t have many commitments — a few hobbies, an activist group, work, and then my friends. No spouse, no kids (I don’t even remember when I had to start saying…

The drive home is quicker than the drive there — the ticker tape of trees and cars isn’t new, so I’ve stopped paying attention. I’m too used to the terrain, the thoughts, the things that trouble me. Your hair on my neck, my head on your chest. The way I…

Andrew Squitiro

Poet and writer in New Orleans, LA.

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