Like an action figure
being bent & manipulated
by a large pair of invisible hands
that just finished an intense
2 hour masturbation session
jerking off its invisible dick
in an air conditioning'less, windowless
basement on the hottest day of summer,
you walk down the sidewalk
on your way to work,
      kicking a crumpled
Dunkin Donuts cup while wondering
how many of your daily actions
are authentically your own.

You do the math in your head,
come to a rough answer
& then accidentally kick
the empty Dunkin Donuts cup
into the street.

You walk over to the curb,
pick up the cup,
drop it back on the sidewalk
& then carefully,
     softly,
          slowly,
kick it the rest of your way
to work,

ignoring the fuck-headed
sun
as it laughs at you
like a mid-2000's
Tom Cruise.

     A sky
like an enormous
Friedrich Nietzsche-looking
manhole cover
tries to explain your mind
to you.

You stand on the street,
     holding an ineffective umbrella
over your head like a regurgitated
question mark,

      missing the good ol' glory days
of depression

when all the sky
ever did
was rain on you.

Hank Williams' voice stares over
the acned edge of puberty
in my ears.

When his first pube sprouts
my head will explode into twanging,
black confetti like Death hosting
a New Year's Eve party
on April 1st, 1997
where a turd was found
in the punch bowl
13 minutes before midnight.

"April Fools!"
no one at the party
screamed
because there was no one there
but Death himself.

Death forgot to make
a Facebook event page
& invite people
so he just crapped
in the punch bowl
instead.

Somehow it seemed like
the most logical thing
to do at the time.