Tonight's Poet Corner: Unsolicited

Unsolicited
by Belinda Roddie

When life sends you a dick pic,
you should first question the source,
since there's always a chance that
Google Images was involved in this
strange, unwanted tryst. Then, challenge

its dimensions - how the girth might
be distorted by the angle, the length
extended by Photoshop. The size
of the ship can still determine the
motion of the ocean, and a rubber dinghy
just won't cut it in already choppy waters.

If you have a strong stomach, maybe
try counting the veins that bulge out,
like an angry man's neck. Check
the texture. Is it like a sausage left in
the microwave for too long, sad
and shriveled? Or does it wobble
like a broken chair leg, warning you
of splinters, or tetanus, or worse?

Upon viewing life's dick pic, you

may feel a little nauseated - that familiar

rise of heat in your throat, the twisting

of intestines like ropes into the shape

and strength of a noose. Everything

about it will seem off: The lighting,

the camera filter. Kind of like

a Picasso painting dipped underwater

within the bowels of a dirty
public restroom. And you know,

now that you think about it, it
really does make sense that it
reminded you of Picasso, a cubist

with his own shapes buried into
someone else's circumference,
drawing out the sweetness
and tasting it like poisoned honey.
Once you've seen life's dick pic,
and you know you've been violated

in every way, you can do the following:
You can throw your cellphone
across the room and smash its glass smile.
You can muffle your soul into a pillow
as if the cushioning will suffocate
the remaining pieces. You can even
disconnect entirely - block, delete,

unfriend, mute, disable, deactivate,
drain the battery so quickly that
your limbs grow as limp as that
poor excuse for a phallic god - a god
that rots the fruit on your tree rather
than proliferating it. But then

you remember other options, and
as the silicon grows cold in your
clammy hand, you remember
the days when she sent you stars
and kiss emojis. You remember
the redness of her cheeks radiating
beneath the shadow of a selfie stick.

You remember how warm she was,
how bright, compared to the chilled
blue glare of your alternate reality.
This isn't a picture of life; it's
a freeze frame of desperation, an illusion,
tricking you into thinking that this is

how it is, how it's always been, and how
it always will be. But life is a real insecure
little bitch, and sometimes, sending you
dick pics makes it feel like it hasn't fucked
you up enough yet. And hey, if all else fails,
and it's not getting the message that you
don't want this, you can set the device down,

but not before you respond with
a gesture of your own: One digit,
probably bigger than the one emerging
from the waistband, raised and ready
to poke the son of the bitch
right in his stupid horny eye.