• Vol. 09
  • Chapter 07
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I’ve wandered into an apocalyptic
future, overgrown moss
and abandoned tires,
fortune cookies graffitied
in German
on signs I can’t translate,
skies of nothing but fog.

The last time I was happy
was decades ago,
watching shooting stars
with my friend Frank.
Maybe he can still see them
on the Heaven Channel
from death’s sofa.

The world is quiet
except for the rattle of debris
in the wind.
Yesterday, I found a blue tarp
in mint condition, clasped it
around my shoulders
like some kind of superhero.



Raindrops fall red on the ground,
luscious as apples, hot as flame,
making me think God is
either a dragon or a chameleon
stuck in Eden mode.
I pray to the dirt beneath
my feet—humble, grateful.

If I were to write my own
fortune it would say:
Sit under a Sitka Spruce
and inhale paradise.
That’s what I do.
Every day.
Smells like rotting kumquats.