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:
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.