A Brazilian Sugar Mill
by Dominic Carew

I  SIT at my desk at the investment bank on the seventeenth floor, which may as well be the moon for all the contact we have with the real world here, while below, on the street, a din surges. “Cookies? Does anyone want cookies? We’re going to buy cookies.” I order two white chocolate and macadamia cookies. One for now, one for tonight after dinner.
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Life’s blurry. Then I shit myself (only a little). Nothing a few beers won’t take care of, color me intrigued. What’s the holdup? Sign me up, fool!

(The world is other for a while.)

A storyline is evading me. I might be searching for it, that or a punchline. Then I fell and hit my head. I see cockroaches (note to self: WTF). It’s all good, bitch! I’m cool! Honestly, it did hurt a little. And by a little, I mean FUCK. Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn. Nothing a few beers won’t take care of, let’s do this!

are small
and hot to the
touch.

Their eyes
just egg whites.

Molten arms
over the forge.

It was after curfew
I was in town, in the alley
with Margaret and Jordan,
the streetlamps shouting white light,
and I took off my socks and shoes
and felt gravel biting frozen at my feet.

Jordan said to me, “Let’s go to the overlook.”
I said to him, “Let’s run!”