I enter the shower at three thirty, switching my music from Bluetooth to phone speakers. I am the girl. Argyle sweaters cover my hairy nips. You may call me the sweetest flower you'll ever meet. We should be present. Here, the writer is present.
We exist together within this meat realm of death, everything feeling so innocent and so right. Poet walks the streets taking notes in his Notepad and saving the world. Carlsbad poops on the sidewalk. I reach down, swirling and swiveling the brownmater all over the place.