I drive down Pelayo
to Aragon
to El Camino Real
to Pico
to the 5, north or south,
to get away from my life.
But the dirt of the street
sticks to my skin.
Windows rolled all the way down.
Ruach, the mighty wind,
cleanses from within.
A rock cracks my windshield.
Why can’t I escape it?
Are rocks proof that life is random?
Or is life the rocks we choose
to pave our path and shape it?
I pick up two hitchhikers,
queer prophets
(to be fair, all prophets are a bit queer):
the King of Babylon
and the King of Egypt,
smelling of pomegranates
with flowers in their beards.
Sitting in the backseat,
they argue about satire—
the Babylonian Bee—
and dreams,
which themselves dream
of REM sleep.
Dynasties left behind
in the rearview mirror.
Anachronistic kings,
thousands of years displaced.
“You’re better off,”
says Nebuchadnezzar
to Amenemhat,
referring to a pebble
with the power of dynamite,
which redefined his life.
“When I was ambitiously young,
looking to grow my Nebu brand
and my Chaldean kingdom,
prophecy struck:
“An invisible hand hewed a rock
from the Mountain
that struck the base of the fountain
that raised to life a statue
with metal alloys and clay parts.
“It came crashing down, and with it,
the Hanging Gardens of Babylon
and the silver framed Mede and Persian art.
“The Greek gods of Olympus
and Nero’s persecution of Christians.
“And modern Europe’s secularization
of a sacred nation.”
Nebuchadnezzar looks at me
in the mirror and says,
“This story would’ve been a YouTube sensation.
“Only the blessed
are woken out of their daze
by a pebble that breaks their gaze,
driving into the hurricane that is their life.”
Pharaoh laughs.
“Seven fat cows swallowed
by seven lean cows.
“That is the prophecy every mathematician
takes to his grave—
an embalming spice preserved to make,
no matter the number of mummified bandages
used for his escape.”
“This is as far as I go,” sighs Nebu.
“I leave you with these lyrics
to set to muse and play on Spotify:
“The God of Abraham, Isaac, Jacob and Joseph
will hear only the resounding words
of the one whose depths
have led him to walk out on his pride,
on all fours, mentally disabled,
eating grass and shrubs
like it was on a banquet table,
living the bovine life for seven years.”
Pharaoh tips me with one last aphorism:
“Seven years of fasting.
Seven years of feasting.
“The former stays as you see it
in the middle of the glass
of your own prison—
a ‘random’ crack.
“The latter waits for you
with anticipation,
praying for you to turn back.”