Fuck you muchacho, Jessica screamed
at me from the edge of the highway
and I had the nerve to ask what does muchacho mean?
It means I hope you die, she said and I
said I probably will, we all will probably unless
a super-intelligent race takes interest in our baby blue
planet’s fortune and decides to make a visit
bringing with them the secret to eternal life
and then, well then, all bets are off. Fuck you,
you swine, you dick, y’ fucking piggo. Your stupid van
has ruined my life again! and I said come on
baby it’s our van baby don’t smile at me that way.
WHY DON’T YOU GO BE CREATIVE SOMEWHERE AND DIE!
she said. That’s not very creative baby, I heard myself answer,
She hissed through her teeth and kicked sand.
I took a step back, away from the road.
I mean it’s not an original idea, I explained,
and you’re not actually creating anything when you die…except bones,
and they’re already there.
After three or four minutes of silence, no cars had passed
and I forgot we were even fighting. And maybe history,
I told the desert. You create history. And maybe a place for worms.