You, there, dreaming with your dick in your hand
here on April 21, 2014—all the trees just beginning
to bear down with their menace of bloom—
did you know that you look just like Marilyn Monroe,
or, if I squint, like Albert Einstein? But you’re no genius
of flesh. You live your life like a Hostess Sno-Ball,
soft and pink as a pair of testicles. Fuck being soft!
Let’s you and me just do some blow, watch the river
rise to kiss us like some simpering bitch. Clark Street
makes me sick with its tiki bars and celebrity chefs,
all that noise. Did you hear that Brad and Angelina
are going to have twins? I read it in Walgreens at
Clark and Lake, that taint of a corner. Imagine
his cock in her pussy again and again, just like
in Mr. and Mrs. Smith, the movie that started
everything and nothing. Maybe some fucking
blue octopus from Australia will come over,
swim up all their assholes, kill the entire
grinning fam damily. But I love you! Do you
love me? I remember going to Disneyland
when I was five, the submarine ride with
that goddamn giant clam. And a mermaid—
maybe it was you. I don’t think we should
get high after all. I don’t think anything.
“Be well,” said the cashier at Walgreens.
“Be well,” said my hash pipe, settling itself
against my inner thigh, “if you can’t be good.”
For NaPoWriMo, Day 21. Questions? Complaints? Hey, read the prompt and click over to the list of requirements.