Last night Chicago broke its larynx into a million little luchador birds 

they went flying in all directions across the nation 

hooting and hollering full of joy and enthusiasm

a declaration that this shit is fun again

I was sitting on my cat-scratched couch

watching my childhood flash before my eyes 

when the luchabirds busted through my living room window 

like a quick-moving rainbow, they pecked at the cookie cake crumbs 

tangled in my chest hair, their beaks like gymnasium thumbtacks 

creeping closer to my heart 

then Rey Fenix jumped off the top of the steel cage

during the tag team match against The Young Bucks

it took my breath away and then the one, two, three

the luchabirds carried me outside in celebration

I felt like a kid again, free from the nowhere narrative of everyday life

no mortgage for a moment, no more small voices going to the hospital

I felt free, at long last recommitted to the spectacle of optimism

suddenly I’m wearing a sparkling mask

being dragged through rainclouds over my neighborhood

I pointed at houses sinking in Credit Karma quicksand 

one by one we lifted them out of their hopelessness

repositioned them so they could stand stronger in the face of any fall

sometimes it doesn’t take much to feel better

a flock of luchabirds giving you a reason to believe

a reason to fall in love with storytelling again

when there’s a meaningful payoff after years of buildup

a beginning, middle and end and we have never felt

more alive



Justin Karcher (Twitter: @justin_karcher, Instagram: the.man.about.town) is a Best of the Net- and Pushcart-nominated poet and playwright born and raised in Buffalo, NY. He is the author of several books, including Tailgating at the Gates of Hell (Ghost City Press, 2015). He is also the editor of Ghost City Review and co-editor of the anthology My Next Heart: New Buffalo Poetry (BlazeVOX [books], 2017).