I am glued to this asshole.
That statement could be misconstrued.
I am not glued to a literal asshole,
I am glued to the head of an asshole.
One more try…
of whose head I am glued,
is a jerk,
or as I was saying …
He’s always making me look bad,
most notably when navigating the stair set of his Boeing private jet.
You’d think one of his countless advisors would advise him to quit stepping out into the wind.
So what does he do about it?
What’s his ‘big boy’ solution to this severely complex and layered issue?
He manufactures a proverbial wall in the form of a brightly colored asshole-red baseball cap.
All his asshole friends wear the same baseball cap like some kind a slow torturous mirroring reminder of this gross affront to my being.
Each night I rest atop my mannequin-headed nest plotting revenge.
I dream of growing legs as to kick through his hollow head.
But it never happens. I can’t grow legs.
And so it is; each morning,
my dreams drown in the nightmare of asshole.
Prewitt Scott-Jackson’s work is a mutation of sorts, a tripartition of poetry, prose and flash fiction. The University of California Santa Barbara alum grew up on Southern storytelling prior to achieving degrees in Native American Studies and Religious Studies. He prefers short walks on the beach because – and I quote – “It’s really hard to walk on sand.”