Event Horizons

by J. Jerome Cruz

This morning is so fucktabulous it’s almost like dancing in the nude with your favorite vacuum while the shows you love Technicolor up the screen. & yet here I am tweeting clips of Russian car crashes to friends who say I always look sad. Once upon a time my memoirs began: In all of Gatlinburg, Tennessee, I was the jabroni who circumcised trees. How did I end up sneaking stones into pinball machines? After a week of workshopping, though, I cleaned it up & now it reads: Every morning the elephant next door steals leaves off my poinsettia trees. This is why I don’t have a life anymore. Don’t those lines just make your core feel va va voom? Just yesterday two people asked for the title, & I told them it’s way too early to decide. That’s a lie. The title I want is When You’re a Yellow Fellow in America Everyone Forgets that You Exist Until It’s No Longer a Matter of Convenience. The title I’ll write down before I send it out is Event Horizons.

J. Jerome Cruz lives and writes in Homer Glen, Illinois. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Hayden’s Ferry Review, New Delta Review, The Adroit Journal, RHINO, and Cimarron Review.