Arja Kumar

NUCLEAR NOSTALGIA

i.

i am still running in my dreams and this time, the song is the 
Bee Gees screeching TRAGEDY, this time i wake up in the middle,
thirsty, overheated, tugging at my tongue
or biting the carpet for a reality check. gravity tastes
like freezer burn, like leftover footprints from the Himalayas or
carbonated honey. the milk of my drool dries to clouds,
veiny streams across my face and leaves the smell of 
nuclear nostalgia, past lives, rocketship grease, and Internet nausea
in my mouth. 

down in the kitchen, the universe is still and silent
and still i am running in my dreams and this time,
the blue devil was chasing me. i pour a glass
of water while looking up at the cold stars and this time,
it runneth over, overflows, floods the house and rest of the earth. i’m sorry 
i got distracted and now all of us have to drown. 

ii. 

i blow the fat cigar’s smoke in the oracle’s face
and it comes out shapeless, 
meaningless, like some let it go song. she reads it
instead of my palm or tea leaves and waves a hand
over some crystals and a ball and this time, before she can speak, 
i stuff roses in her mouth, turn her face, kiss her cheek, 
and leave like another Judas. 

i change into flare pants, a cowboy hat, and a gold chain
on the walk to the preacher’s gathering in town square
where everybody is wearing top hats and bonnets
with their tongue and butts out, taking selfies and  
watching tigers get crucified.

listening to sad country or disco music feeds my melancholic,
and i walk aimless around the town, the rest of the galaxy 
in silver boots and all orange, 
like it’s the 41st century or 
evening stroll to Jupiter. 

iii. 

the AI bot questions me things like 
do you look to the Internet or the stars
for answers? should i order you pizza or poison
for dinner tonight? should i book your ticket for the jungle or 
the lonely high Alps, because according to my data, you’ve spent
the past four years calling nobody but MAMA, PAPA,
and 1-800-LONER? do you think everybody left you because you’re too
sober? should i hook you up with some Internet boys,
because according to my data, they offer a 92% satisfaction rate…four 
stars out of five. do you want me to play R&B or hippie
music when The End is here? how about your playlist titled 
BABY COME BACK AND OTHER SAD DISCO SONGS? have you ever trusted 
anybody but yourself? why do you ask yourself questions when somebody 
else already has the answers? if you ever want to stop the burden 
of thinking, i’m here to think for you. or just let other people think for you. 
new medical research says thinking so much isn’t good for you. 
in fact, it might even kill you. i can show you my data. should i order 
some medicine that helps to stop thinking? do you want it manure flavored or grape? 
should i show you some pictures of Greek sculptures on the theme of IDEALISM? 
you’ve Googled that term 768 times this month and it looks like you’re about to 
do it again by the way your fingers are hunched like that. 
should i call your mom or the angels again? or should i just check you 
into the nearest sanitarium? there’s a three-minute wait time.
they’re serving Taco Bell tonight for the really loony patients. 
why is your name ANONYMOUS?
i scream 
and ask it the same thing and it says,
sorry, i’m not sure i can answer that. 

iv. 

at the birthday party for the young doctor’s 
new baby, the cake tastes like sterile destiny and  
and too healthy, heartless pizza. the baby is already babbling and it looks
like her first word will be NU-NU-NU-NUCLEUS.  
she will grow up too rich and probably too 
intelligent and become a doctor too. when it is my turn to see the child,
i lean my face over the crib and kiss her forehead like another Maleficent.
when she sees the clockguts i’ve sewn
onto my top hat, how i fold my hands like the reverend Sigmund Freud,
she sobs. i tap her third eye and whisper into her ear,
you know who to call when the cuckoo bird
flies over your nest,
and give her my business card and number: 
1-800-hypnotheraPEST. 

v. 

after playing these games,
i sit down on some random park bench
in a lost and lonely part of town
and it’s getting too dark and cold and i remember 
praying for you
when i was told to and
sometimes when i wasn’t. 

when i was five, maybe i used to hallucinate. 
one time, Ma and Pa were praying so hard for you
on a hot kind of Mississippi Sunday. 
in the temple’s kitchen, the kids wouldn’t 
play with me, so i talked to the walls until a door 
appeared. so maybe i shrunk. so maybe i went in and 
maybe there was an arcade
and maybe god. i was so small and still 
am so small, but 
now we are in our parents’ room again
and it’s been four hours talking about if morals exist,
getting A’s in math class, and 
what it means to be human. 
no matter how much 
i pray, it doesn’t work because you don’t 
understand proverbs.
only mitosis, meiosis, osmosis. 

when you look at me like you don’t need me,
i reach for the novacane and laughing gas 
and pull out all my teeth to pay the price, handing 
it over to the angels shaking their heads. 

you turn to look at me and ask, 
are you having an existential crisis again? 
i laugh and look out the window at the melting
clock in the sky, 

no, i’m just being human. 
CAN’T I JUST BE HUMAN? 

vi. 

i thought i towed you out of 
heaven
for a reason.

now i wipe my own sweat and tears
with a hunched back 
just like another ape.