Gavin Lucky
Blue Line Poem
Riding on a train you notice that everyone is on their phone. You are on your phone, writing down that you noticed that everyone else was on their phone. The possibilities for regression are endless. The sky is clear and blue. Sailing weather. You allow yourself a small, sideways smile.
Composting
I threw my heart in with the coffee grounds and the apple cores and hoped for the best. Forty days later a tree sprang up and I called it ______ and it was good. The flowers bloom and I start calling it Satan. As the flames reach its highest branches I can hear myself whispering into the smoke: I miss I miss I miss you I miss you I miss you. Nothing has grown back.
Playing Fast and Loose with Modern Medicine
Is how I wound up in this mess in the first place, raving about my problems on the street corner along with all the other well-adjusted individuals. You think I’m kidding? Take a look around. Does any of this look healthy to you?
To All My People in the Ocean
I’m sorry for being out of touch, but I was too busy erecting a shrine to my grief in the space where my body used to be. You would’ve liked it. There were scented candles that smelled like fresh laundry, stuffed animals and little magnets from all the cities I’ve gone to. I wanted to apologize, but I forgot how to be sincere, like a bird that became flightless several hundred generations ago, but is still surprised every time it lands roughly in the dirt, puzzled the ground is still underfoot. Where is the sky? All I see is blue, all I see is the ocean. There are interior and exterior oceans and both are vast and numerous. I am on a voyage in search of Sincerity. It may take some time. You spend your whole life waiting to see the Promised Land, but you may die with-out ever touching the shore. You might wake up dead tomorrow. Who will ever know? I like to think that the Promised Land is a state of mind forever lapping at our feet, like a thousand of the tiniest waves, like a hundred of the happiest dogs, but we’ll never wade all the way in. The water is too cold and the sirens are quiet and someone is calling us home, put a sweater on, you’ll catch your death out there.
Gavin Lucky is a peripatetic teacher. Previous work of his has appeared in Otoliths, Shot Glass Journal, Riverbed Review, and MacQueen’s Quinterly.
Blue Line Poem
Riding on a train you notice that everyone is on their phone. You are on your phone, writing down that you noticed that everyone else was on their phone. The possibilities for regression are endless. The sky is clear and blue. Sailing weather. You allow yourself a small, sideways smile.
Composting
I threw my heart in with the coffee grounds and the apple cores and hoped for the best. Forty days later a tree sprang up and I called it ______ and it was good. The flowers bloom and I start calling it Satan. As the flames reach its highest branches I can hear myself whispering into the smoke: I miss I miss I miss you I miss you I miss you. Nothing has grown back.
Playing Fast and Loose with Modern Medicine
Is how I wound up in this mess in the first place, raving about my problems on the street corner along with all the other well-adjusted individuals. You think I’m kidding? Take a look around. Does any of this look healthy to you?
To All My People in the Ocean
I’m sorry for being out of touch, but I was too busy erecting a shrine to my grief in the space where my body used to be. You would’ve liked it. There were scented candles that smelled like fresh laundry, stuffed animals and little magnets from all the cities I’ve gone to. I wanted to apologize, but I forgot how to be sincere, like a bird that became flightless several hundred generations ago, but is still surprised every time it lands roughly in the dirt, puzzled the ground is still underfoot. Where is the sky? All I see is blue, all I see is the ocean. There are interior and exterior oceans and both are vast and numerous. I am on a voyage in search of Sincerity. It may take some time. You spend your whole life waiting to see the Promised Land, but you may die with-out ever touching the shore. You might wake up dead tomorrow. Who will ever know? I like to think that the Promised Land is a state of mind forever lapping at our feet, like a thousand of the tiniest waves, like a hundred of the happiest dogs, but we’ll never wade all the way in. The water is too cold and the sirens are quiet and someone is calling us home, put a sweater on, you’ll catch your death out there.
Gavin Lucky is a peripatetic teacher. Previous work of his has appeared in Otoliths, Shot Glass Journal, Riverbed Review, and MacQueen’s Quinterly.
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