It’s the dead of winter
and there is a
big fat fly
marauding around my garage
coming closer and closer
to my head
as it sweeps out
trying to get the most
of the situation
and I sit here
writing this
to Stevie Wonder
with a used blunt
in the ashtray
sipping on a glass of Scotch.

I light a smoke.
The fly still gets closer.

Somewhere in Western China
someone is fucking
a blow-up doll.