for  a  long  time  i’ve  wanted  to  say something  of  hope,

that  tickle-me-pink  folly;        bandaid  on  the  cataclysmic

knees  of  pandora,  burning  scapegoat,   gilded  question.

whatever  it  was  that   waltzed  through  the  porcelain  jar

knew  already  of  wreckage,   salivation,  a  whet-stemmed

glass  piercing  the  feathered  breast  of  some  antediluvian

beast.  here  the  map  says  nothing  of  subtraction:    siren-

songed,   salted  meat,   an  ocean  of  both   distance  and

destination.  refraction,  anachronism.    science  tells  us  we

are  foolish to believe in the sky          but says nothing of the

color  blue.    the  television  speaks  in  undertones,    recog-

nizes  itself  in  the  reflection  of  my  empty  bottle.       i do

not mean to speak of a grief that isn’t mine.    fitting,      how

a mouth can become another mouth     and then a whole sea

swallowing  its  own  misplaced  name.  so  here:  the   teeth 

chattering into static.     the pixelate or its leftovers.      i want 

to tell you of god,  megafauna,  how           this long lineage 

of  doubt  razorblades  into  meaning.

Listen to Lucas read "CARBON COPY" below:

00:00 / 01:23

LUCAS PEEL is a big mouth moonlighting as an adult. His work has appeared in a handful of shelves on his mother's dresser. Lucas currently lives in Honolulu, Hawaii. We do not know what he is yelling about.

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