You’re suffering from a hot and cold love interest
is what the psychic at the Scottsdale, AZ mall
tells me in the food court, minutes after she claims
my aura’s got It, and she’s drawn to me
because of Chemical X, the stuff of magical girls:
the sugar and spices and everything nice,
like bourbon and beer and lingerie sets with matching
robes and the Easter version of candy corn—
and really, women are strong as hell, so I tell her,
“Lady, 100% of movie characters and 200% of people
living on this goddamn earth suffer from love,
so what fortune do you really have for me today?”
I sound like I didn’t get my free gift with purchase,
or the cashier gave me the wrong Happy Meal toy,
but it’s stupid how she leaves me her card,
then tells the man behind me that he’ll end up
being rich and famous and land a hot wife in no time,
and no, of course he doesn’t have Chemical X,
so why give him more than he deserves?
And at brunch, I yell at the waiter when I order
a Croque Madame and he keeps calling it a Monsieur,
and why can’t he see the egg soaking, penetrating
the toast on top, taking charge, like that French movie
with the two prostitutes milking their Sugar Parents,
the female one teaching the male hooker
to please his Sugar Mama, amuse her with some fun fact,
like how the knives in the five-star are made of
shark’s bone, and before he knows it, his Mama’s
buying him a new watch and beautiful silk shirts,
until she gets bored of games, dumping him
for someone younger, because well,
what does he really deserve?
And that night, I meet a male-former-stripper-
slash-porn-writer- starving-artist-bartender-nice-body
for dinner, make him pay for my iced tea,
because once he talks too much about his failed
Hollywood life, I walk out after five minutes.
What does he deserve for writing second-rate porn?
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