UNRELENTING OCTOBER BLUES

by Chris Vola

I keep forgetting that this week 

is New York Comic Con  

 

earlier today I was walking down 10th Ave

chain-ripping the weed pen 

I turned onto 33rd St

& almost collided with a posse  

of axe and bow-wielding barbarians: 

fur-covered shoulder pads

leather arm bands

blood-splattered warrior tunics

white & blue face paint

one of them slugging an energy drink

 

they looked across the avenue 

& began making these terrible shrieks 

like werewolves in group therapy 

 

a pair of Roman legionnaires 

were marching toward us on the crosswalk

shields strapped to backs 

spears out & ready

they were flanked by a blaster-carrying Stormtrooper

a 6-foot-6 foxlike critter with big Looney Tunes eyes 

an anime version of Supergirl

some kind of elf/wizard hybrid with blue skin

& a tentacle monster 

wearing a see-through plastic rain jacket

 

the barbarians kept screaming

 

I stepped back as the groups converged

anticipating carnage         

but everyone just started hugging

& fist/paw bumping

the screams turned to giggles 

Supergirl took a flask & a vape out of her skirt

& they passed them around 

weapons & appendages gleaming 

in the sunlight

reflected by the skyscrapers

 

it was beautiful

 

& all I could think was…

wow

I’d somehow traveled the multiverse 

to its best possible outcome

where creatures 

from every fantastic realm & epoch 

were not only real

but could also co-exist 

in love & degeneracy 

 

then the crosswalk light changed 

& a Cybertruck veered out of traffic toward the curb

aiming to park in the space 

where the elf/wizard & tentacle monster 

were standing 

 

a pudgy guy with neck tats

& a police-friendly American flag 

trucker hat 

poked his head 

out of the passenger side window 

& shouted

“get outta the street 

ya FAWKIN GOOFS”

 

& they did 

 

there were no pithy comebacks

no volley of arrows or spears 

or laser blasts 

into the side of the truck 

or its occupants’ skulls

no threats of disembowelment 

or tentacle choke-outs 

or oaths of revenge 

just a collective look of sheepishness

& defeat

that was so complete I had to turn my attention

farther down the block 

where a skeletal woman 

in a Knicks t-shirt 

was puking hot dog guts 

into a trash can

next to 3 teenagers recording themselves

dancing like seizuring flamingos 

 

I continued walking

took a big rip from the pen

reminding myself that this is it

this is all we get 

 

this is my Roman Empire 

Chris Vola is the author of 11 books, including the poetry collections You're Going to Hate the New Apartment (Alien Buddha) and E is for Ether (Leaf Garden Press). His poems appear in places like Maudlin House, Main Street Rag, scaffold, Rat's Ass Review, New Pop Lit, and Neologism Poetry Journal. He lives in New York. 

ON MARS WE'RE BRIEFLY FLYING

by Chris Vola

 

The winds declined to rip

the helicopter to pieces,

its carbon-fiber blades

spinning furiously,

defiantly, churning

for a few seconds

in the flushed sky,

even though sooner or later,

like all expensive toys,

its sunken parts would be left

to fill with dust,

even though a storm

would eventually

take an antenna,

the circuitry would garble,

landing gear would be

plucked like scabs.

Still, NASA applauded.

Elon Musk re-tweeted.

Someone proclaimed

“a red-letter day on the Red Planet!”

From 178 million miles away,

another data burst confirmed

that the helicopter

had touched softly

back down on the rutted 

ground, where only rovers

dared to tread.

The waiting was finally over

for the engineers,

who, giddy from their screens,

began to believe the future

could be tolerable.

They immediately forgot 

the gorgeous sunlight that

filtered through the oaks

outside the command center,

or the clogged freeways 

where blood & plastic 

spilled like SpaceX

propulsion fluid across

our still-living desert.

The Earth's concerns

had become irrelevant  

to them, like a neighborhood

with unknown sirens & sickness,

or the bus-stop profile 

of a sleeping family.

The Earth itself, unmoved

by progress

on another sphere,

would only turn

& brace its stem

against its own putrid winds.

Most of us would continue

to stay in the homes

we’d been staying in 

& busy ourselves

with the swipe-&-click

routines that could never

really sustain us,

pretending not to hear

the whirring in our heads,

or see the ugly

bubble cockpit

of a much different chopper,

one fueled by muzzle-flash,

& boredom,

& lungs twisted

full of loss,

its impact heavier

than a verdict,

emptier than the spacesuits

we’d never wear 

while prancing

in the Martian gravity,

awaiting Elon’s rise

from cryogenic slumber

to save us

on the third day.

We'd long

given up wondering

why it came

for us this way or

if we might escape

it, its appetite whetted,

its wide blades

ready to grind us into

the only dust

we’d ever know. 

Chris Vola is the author of six books, most recently I is for Illuminati: An A-Z Guide to Our Paranoid Times (William Morrow, 2020). His recent poems appear or are forthcoming in New Pop Lit, The Collidescope, The Main Street Rag, Anti-Heroin Chic, and Horror Sleaze Trash. He lives in New York.