I’ve learned to speak Molotov for the shatter of everything we know and hold habitual in our knowing. The night fires mark foreclosed acres
for miles, attracting a congress of moths. Profligacy too requires a brand of devotion. Yesterday I sided with the bankers. After our tidal consumption of Glenlivet, steak dinners, orgies and cocaine we ended up tap dancing straight from the SEC to the ICU. We now leverage mortgages against corn and haggle with weather to fill our coffers.
Meanwhile the debt ceiling bottlerockets to outer space. The experts soothsay a fiscal cliff looms. Never argue with experts.
Their list of credentials is often long enough to stun an elephant. Tonight the sky is dressed in artificial light. It’s the Fourth of July.
Soon we’ll all be covered in a Buddhist monk’s windblown ashes.
-- José Luis Gutiérrez is a San Francisco-based poet. His work has appeared in The Cortland Review, Eratio, Margie, Juked, DMQ, among others.