Has Anyone Had Fun Yet?
A Virtual Poetry (Micro)Chap
by Ace Boggess
“Has Anyone Had Fun Yet?”
question asked by Hayley Mitchell-Haugen
Virus shaped like a disco ball,
hanging distant, its light
paints our bodies in sickly bright dots.
We dance
because music plays loudest in empty rooms.
Virus shines
a spotlight, too, calling us out
for desire, pointing:
You & you & you.
“Why Are We Forced into Such Small Spaces Together?”
—Ada Limón, “Accident Report in the Tall, Tall Weeds”
Six-man cell in a forty-eight-man POD.
The heat of anger. Noise, a benediction of howling.
You’d write, as Sartre, Hell is other people, &
be right, as Sartre, but also, as was Sartre, wrong.
We could fight. We did, drew blood.
My blood. More often, we were unified,
a squad of conspirators, plotting
ways to assist the smugglers, tattoo artists,
lovers—mocked, yes, but one of us (two).
You’d learn, in a time like this
in a place like that, the side you’re on
shifts during shakedowns, poker games.
We didn’t have to like each other—
if a brawl broke out, these were the ugliest
uncles & cousins we’d want with us,
grinning as they swung their gruesome chains.
“Why Does America Love War?”
question asked by Charlie Brice
Not war America loves, it’s winning; no,
not winning, it’s the rooting. Sports.
Need to know we have a side, which one,
the logo on our helmets, uniform.
America ra-ras, hoorays,
joining the council of boredom.
America bets on its own team.
America watches on TV news as bombs crater.
What greater thrill than the chance of losing everything
in a contest that intensifies near the end, but never ends?
On the News
Statewide Lockdown, Day Seventeen
Drawn on a map of poisons,
the county I live in
reads hemlock,
nightshade, cyanide.
I turn off the news for an hour
as if to pray through dinner
that the meat not be contaminated—
words in silence
save the scraping of my fork against a plate.
The Day Before
Tomorrow, I turn 49,
the age of Harry Haller when he pledged
to explore both sides of his divided nature,
walked through a door For Madmen Only.
Tonight, I lie in bed, reading the autobiography
of Rob Halford, singer for Judas Priest:
he describes with wit his years spent
a gay man comically inept
despite rep as ballsy rocker on stage,
cracking whips, raising a fist
for angry teens yet to figure out
even one side of their natures.
I’ll continue reading, laughing,
maybe play a few of Halford’s songs
I loved when I was one of those angry teens,
sing along, my voice echoing in holy isolation.
Stopping for Gas
Price so low I would buy more, but where to go?
The virus has shut down avenues,
barricaded boulevards & long blocks of adventure.
Left at the light?
Virus waits like a stern father, porch light on.
Highway heading north?
Virus strobes sapphires, whispers through a bullhorn:
pull the vehicle over. My tank half-full to begin with,
I need the quickie thrill of a clicking pump.
Virus times me lest I’m slow, taps me
on the shoulder, tells me, If you’re ready
to head home, I’ll meet you there.
BIO: Ace Boggess is author of six books of poetry, most recently Escape Envy (Brick Road Poetry Press, 2021). His writing has appeared in Michigan Quarterly Review, Indiana Review, Hanging Loose, and other journals. An ex-con, he lives in Charleston, West Virginia, where he writes and tries to stay out of trouble. His seventh collection, Tell Us How to Live, is forthcoming in 2024 from Fernwood Press.