I don’t like the term coronavirus art.

Californian blackworms crawl towards me, only me, I’m targeted,

they’re genetically modified like in films like Uranus

Attacks 1960s films with buxom Zsa Zsas

You get the picture. You’re a nature lover.

You don’t know what art is, but you know it when you see it.

You don’t know what permafrost is, but you know it when it melts.

You’re a social animal in a double split experiment

and this is a social identity theory.

Perhaps taking place in the city of Split, Croatia on our side of the

parallel universe. We’re stuckhere, my friends.

Our Split Airbnb had an eccentric deposed noble

as host who now in 2017 worked for the

Croatian city tourist industry and mined our

respectively dull minds’ shallows for

English advertising slogan suggestions.

Lickety-split. Time to Split. We weren’t helpful.

Melting glaciers have thinned down bergs

to surreal sculptures of the same monster worms

revealed by the melt, like a drained lake once prematurely

dammed. There is the blackworm again, it’s a bullying thing.

Lumbriculus variegatus. I try to avoid its eyes but

the fucker has no eyes. It is practicing

macroaggressions against me, anyway,

it is ignoring me because it is in a zoom meeting.

This particular worm has made it so

I am no longer a nature lover.

I’m all about the misobiotic.

I am all for Climate Change now. Fuck the worm.

The glaciers keep melting. There’s me in 2017.

A head and shoulder bust of freeze.

It was from five quantum years ago, back when

I used to smile. Hashtag saveourfuckingplanet.

A friend is distracting herself in the midst of the pandemic

by growing a monster worm in a jar on the window sill.

That was when I first saw it clearly, through

whittled glaciers, the iced glass of a pickle jar.