this will make a great movie once it’s all over. waiting for the revolver
to swallow us in new bombshells. we’re planning brunch with old friends
at some new place we’ve heard about. our metabolisms, collectively slowing.
the sour ale of conversation fills with hurt before our parting.
as the darkness comes on we forget the sun a minute. and the moon
that for so long seemed meaningless is suddenly crowned in new purpose.
saturn heaves invisibly from its volatile position. a single planet with the power
of a chafing pimple or an itch. the daily reads. twelve notices for the coming era:
hurricanes/dictators/foreign propaganda as i chase the expanding orbit
of my arc over a muffin. I envision an idyllic neighborhood with electric cars,
and sustainable grocers. I will establish myself on the unclaimed, ahistorical
terrain of a green barn. raise children that know the taste of mud. have we done enough
to make our life picture good, the wifi strong, not buffering? when was the last time
you had faith in your government. can you recall the day & did you come.
when last was the time you walked the river. for the sake of ignoring. of blotting out
the shock. of the insolent, corpulent face. of corporate america. as naked. as bald.
as its disdain for everything sacred. which takes the shape of the darkening cool
of Wa-Hi in the moonshadow. of restricted roof access. trespassing to see that
crescent sun survive the dark. avail us in the dim. for the first time, since 1978.
Lucas Gonzalez is a poet from New York City. A Pushcart Prize nominee and winner of a Robert Haiduke Prize in Poetry, Lucas earned his MFA at Columbia University, where he served as a senior editor for Columbia Journal. His recent micro-chapbook is forthcoming from Ghost City Press July 2018. He teaches and lives in Los Angeles with his partner.
Featured image by Tyler van der Hoeven