IT’S 1 AM AND I’M THROWING ROCKS AT GOD’S WINDOW
the hope being that you wake up, or look outside, or sneak out to smoke a clove before the mosquitoes descend like fog and we lose sight of the morning’s restless traffic. and everybody knows that god lives just off the turnpike, past the last levee rolling into an endless ocean of sawgrass. what i mean to say is that the afterlife is a toll road is a puddle of wet concrete or sad song spilling through the crackling speakers. this crumbling infrastructure, all whitewash and poor drainage. they say the tallest thing in the state is a landfill. fitting, for what are we all but used up things rotting in the sun? once, summer was just an afternoon thunderstorm or parade of bicycles in the cul-de-sac and back then we didn’t know cool until we heard it on the bus radio, meaning we’ve always been listening to the thick air for something to believe in. and if god is from florida then that means he is just as wicked as we claim him, on billboards and infomercials and in the white picket neighborhoods or clutched handbags of passersby. everyone here is rich or dying or both, some long row of car dealerships begging for attention. we, some faded sticker on the sharp edge of yesterday, the inflatable mascot limp and dancing in the crabgrass. and what is god but hot air, some wet summer we will one day write when all our friends have left or found a new home on the lighted corner of swinton and atlantic. call it a heaven spot, i guess, nightlife and all its undertakings. here, the sky only glows because of all the smog, some sloppytagged skyline speaks back to us, says: see you soon.
Lucas Peel is a Florida Man by trade, shithead by starsign, and runaway by choice. His poems have been featured in Hominum, Olney, HAD, GASHER, Barren, and elsewhere, enjoying a steady feature on a handful of shelves on his mother's dresser. Lucas was born in the year of the banana and currently lives in Honolulu, HI. He sometimes believes in love and also himself.