On the blue bridge behind the honey slide,
a little girl dreams of see-through lingerie.
She wants to surprise her husband with her penis,
to greet him at the door after his long day at work.
When her friends exile her from the playground,
she runs home to pan the television static for nipples.
When the red numbers skip ahead,
she runs to the bookshelf for the medical dictionary.
“There’s something about Sunday night
that makes you want to kill yourself.”
When she said this, her homework was finished,
and there was no God.
If pride comes before “The Fall,”
I wish it would get off quickly.
I’m waiting for the stunt man to trick
the bushy-browed girl into stealing morphine pills.
Everything he stands for lies on the cutting room floor.
No one had the guts to tell him.
Once you think to sell the free books
out on the table, only Word Perfect 8 for Dummies
is left. You’re doing it wrong.
She lays face down on the carpet.
Her scalp burns from the pulling. She can’t breathe.
If only she could make them turn around
in time for the blood, but they don’t come when called.
You were at the right place at the right time.
It could have been me. It should have been me.
When the deli forgets your chocolate cheesecake,
you’ll ask if it’s because you’re black.
You claim you’ll eat the cookie they sent by mistake,
but you knew it was coming.
There was no mistake.
Take a look at the receipt.