The Prince

by Matt Greene

 

We wandered the city in spiraling circuits, watching bar neon flash synaptic impulses, made our way through underground tunnels, on the Red Line, on the Purple Line, on the Gold Line shimmering above the Arroyo Seco, in Lyfts stalled out in Westwood’s motherboard, on foot, passing the warm glow of the pupuserias on Vermont, our mouths watering as we imagined gizzards and soju, the Prince’s red leather booths encircled by suits of armor. When we were kids, we’d ride our scooters to the Buddhist Temple and circle the Prayer Wheel, slapping it with our hands. Sometimes we dreamt of eating clamshells in each others’ backyards. Sometimes we dreamt book reports deleted and written anew in unending loop. Sometimes we dreamt the insides of the Prayer Wheel, a black space with laser lines that didn’t touch—had to touch—if they didn’t touch, and soon, that was the end of everything. We found ourselves lying in bed, sweating. The ticking of a dinosaur clock. Alone.

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Matt Greene holds an MFA from Eastern Washington University and teaches writing in Appalachia. “Aliens” and “The Prince” are from a linked series. Pieces from this series have appeared in The Cincinnati Review, Cleaver, Spillway, Split Lip, Wigleaf, and other journals. Other recent work has appeared in Conjunctions, Moss, and Santa Monica Review.