Happy Little Nobody

I’m reading an actress

call the vampire movies

her day job that lets her go

independent at nightfall

and brand herself a nobody

in her hardcover backed

by a two-name publisher

who believes even a nobody

needs to be somebody

for anybody to care.

White men will be white men

thanks to this locker room

election so a magazine gossips

the sex stuff from the actress’

book, something about giving

high-fives after orgasm

after trying for two weeks

an unnamed man she swiped

right off celebrity Tinder.

Stop touching yourself

the teen idol says

while touching herself

with her bestseller book.

Meanwhile, I’ve been fasting

nights the past week—

the non-immigrant alien

student of writing must be

the poorest man in chinos

siphoning the university

library’s internet

to learn of the biweekly

two hundred and twenty-five

dollars direct-deposited

into the pit of my stomach

the acid carnivorous

tears into the influx

magic mushrooms

and my knees tremble

as I stand up and give

the invisible hand five.