My bong tells me that darkness is the abstract form of
the dark, so I ask it,
‘Does that mean other bonuses can be enjoyed in the dark?’
I reach through the blinds instead of waiting for
an answer and my hand feels the night, the cool
touch of the city’s sunglasses lying on the
bedside table, removed, and the rough, sandy sweat
across the city’s nosebridge, unhumped by said
sunglasses. It’s really, really a great city, and it’s also
really, really a great bong.
In life after death, people will keep busy playing Trivia Pursuit, our
days filled with such ‘important’ issues as ‘How much does
a stomach filled with twelve cheeseburgers stacked one
atop the other weigh?’ Does that mean me and my bong
are already dead, or something – or we’re already like, in the
afterlife? Because, you know, I know that answer?