Of the Butterfly, Wings on the Muzo by Nicholas Jackson

LATE LAST WEEK, probably Friday, Hector lost his glasses, although it wasn’t until Monday at his desk in front of incredibly long rows of blurry text that he remembered he had lost them, spun around in his chair and asked Terri, well the back of her high-lit bob, if she had seen them, or if possibly a member of the cleaning crew had taken them to the lost-and-found or something.
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“Who was that?”

“What?”

“Just now. Heard the phone.”

“Just now?”

“Yes, just now. Who?”

“Some old friend of mine.”

“Ahh…an old friend. Just how old?”

There was once a little trigger fish

swimming in a tiny corner of the Pacific
amongst empty soda cans,
dirty clouds of diapers, coat hangers,
webs of duct tape, light bulbs.

In my new populace we are perfect, but the earth still dies.

In my new populace everyone is issued a bicycle and a water bottle. A single high speed railroad operates between all major metropoli. We all live in group-housed earthships. But in my new populace we are still each a little whirlwind of thoughts ready to take the world by a storm, grasping at the technology, never still always racing forward. We still love like the advancement of human society, like the destruction of natural and primitive instinct. We still bow under the creature feeling, Otto and Eliade’s mysterium tremendum pressing at the back of our sinuses. In my new populace we are a myriad of new industrial revolutions, in which each old powerhouse and smokestack that blackened the winter sky is a new beginning and each dawn is just an old solution.