The Patron Saint of Lost Illusions
If I could exist on the sustenance of longing
I would. If I could regard the dystopia of lacking
With a mere bourgeois, cocktail-party whimsy,
perhaps the pang of social isolation could sew up
an altogether fancier suit of acquiescence. Perhaps
I could rationalize our subtle subservience to
A coffin-lidded class system. Perhaps I might get a
“real” job. But why? For when the Arctic fox changes
seasons it simply changes its fur. And a collection
of furs hangs lovelier in a closet of skeletons. But
I’ve made a career of poverty, haven’t I? I have
romanticized it to such stylish grandeur that I
cannot help but fictionalize it, make it more wear-
able for those who cannot bear the ugliness of it.
I have made it cinematic. I have dressed it in the most
thematic costumes that even Edith Head would plotz.
I’ve washed it in the most forgiving light that even Saint Joan
Crawford in Mildred Pierce might blush. I have reduced it
to such Dickensian terms that even the extras—those lower
registers—enjoy playing the décor. I’ve shot it through a
rose-tinted lens, but the fabric is synthetic—man-made—
and cannot help itself wear thin.
Gabriel Balente Garcia is a writer of poetry, short fiction and short plays, as well a photographer and painter in New York City. Under the name Gabriel Garcia his work has appeared in the zine entitled Vice and, under the nom de plume, Gabriel "G" Garcia, his work has appeared in Burning Word, Willows Wept Review, Creations Magazine, Danse Macabre du Jour, and is forthcoming in Crosstimbers.