Dominic Gualco’s Notes for the Next One

Words become bunkers for soldiers. I’m not talking
about the military kind. See, if you look in a mirror
there is war paint under your eyes and shotgun shells strapped
to your nose. It is the way things are now. We have reached the peak
of human capability and our toes are rotting into the soil. We are losing
faith in things beyond us. I swear, God is a way for men to explain
away their infertility. There is nothing beyond us but empty space
with hot gases and light we lost before. There is an undetectable dot
of my sadness hidden somewhere on this globe, somewhere near the
sea monster that sleeps beside Iceland. I swear, sea monsters are a way
for men to explain away that they can’t control the weather. There is no human
error, except that we’ve evolved to be physically diminutive to our relatives.
And I swear, destroying the Earth is a way for men to explain away
that they can’t outrun a tiger, outwrestle a chimp, or outsmart a
cockroach. They say cockroaches will be here forever, but as I said earlier,
I have lost faith in all the Theys and absolute Hes. We are here
and we’re all fucked within 200 years, so, in the meantime,
let’s set every lawn ablaze with piss gone gold and let all the bunnies
out of the animal shelters. For now, let’s hop around to the sound
of vinyl being dropped from skyscrapers, giving the birds
somewhere to land.