Read More: A Brief Q&A with Lucas Jorgensen
The Greeter at the Bureau of Betrayal Always Gives the Same Speech
Benedict gives the British his position… Brutus sheathes in Caesar the knife he expects least… You know the story. I am invoked. My visage in a cup of coffee. My name in the mouth of a parliament speech. I wouldn’t waste one minute repeating. What have I waited to tell you?… I prefer my eggs fried, not poached… I have a bone to pick with Dante, leaving me out in the cold, a devil’s belly… Someone kinder said I should be celebrated… when I write the history of solitude… I wouldn’t know where to start. I wrote about a bee, once, gorged on honey, surrounded by smoke… I wrote about the way the day slips when the shops close and the workers start home. Forgiveness… it’s like silver… dissolved in solvent to develop a photograph. What might surprise you?… I wine with Marilyn Monroe and Nietchze each night… I pay my tax. My name in the English tongue sounds like “I carry it.” I’ve carried much on your behalf. When the lucky one ran off with all your burdens… it was me who heaped them on his back.
The Basement of the Bureau of the God We Trust
You work where the money stamps its price tags on things. Your first day on the job, The President says “Handle the silks you have with care and they will last you long.” The President says “The thick red oil gets on everything and will not come off no matter how hard it is sponged.” In the job description, you were told “Have countless industrial uses.” If a tag is bloody, you reach for bleach. A desk opens just enough for you to see the glimmer of the Something-You-Should-Not-See and you think “This is what gives birth to the money.” You are wrong. The President, through his paper-white teeth, says, “It’s a common thought to think.” There’s a long assembly line of drawers, each with its own label. “The line expands all the time,” The President says, then reminds you to print a new tag for the upcoming Panic Price Index increase. “You will be an invisible domestic helper,” he says. “You will work efficiently. You will work alone.” For a few hours, you crawl into the drawers, so small, to make yourself fit, it almost looks like praying. For the test you’ll need to know the big numbers needed more space. “Do not think this means all prices are not equal,” The President tuts, “It is just that the bigger the number, the more water-resistant, mildew-proof.” The President prints out a tag and pastes it to your chest, when you protest, says, “Wash with lukewarm suds, like any other heavy cotton.” You can afford one thought: will this be on the test?
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Lucas Jorgensen is a poet and educator originally from Cleveland, Ohio. He was a winner of the 2023 92Y Discovery Poetry Contest and holds an MFA from New York University where he was a Goldwater Fellow. Currently, he is a PhD candidate at the University of North Texas where he teaches and studies poetry. His work has appeared in Poetry, LitHub, Southeast Review, Copper Nickel,and others.
Read More: A Brief Q&A with Lucas Jorgensen