Daydream

Or if I had 100 Million Dollars

When I pay off my student loans and quit my day job
When I have the most beautiful moth-free wardrobe of Westwood, Margiela, and Gauiltier
When I’ve put up my brothers and sister for life 
And buy my mother a house with a big yard for her weed plants and four dogs

After I have rectified every bad deed by donation, volunteer service, and patronage
And made amends with every man who has ever done me wrong

When everyday I wake up well-rested, having no nightmares, with an invigorating calisthenic workout, a dry sauna schvitz, and a brusque walk with my little border terrier, Marzipan
And lay in bed every night with a clear, unracing mind

When I have nowhere to be, except the matinee at my local theater, a revitalized art-deco masterpiece with the brightest projector bulbs you’ve ever seen 

After I have spent my summers by the pool and winters traveling the Americas
After I have the time to master woodworking and sharpshooting and French cooking
And finally learn Spanish
And after I write the next Great American Novel that garners praise from the likes of Vollman and Cooper, but is ultimately panned by the New York Times

When there are no more botanical gardens left to see
And I say goodbye to my sweet husband who did not suffer in death or despair, goodbye to my sweet lover after a torrid post-widowed affair, goodbye to my sweet forgiving friends—

I will live out my final years working in solitude as a Carthusians monk
And in those final days when I clean out my closet of sentimental belonging—my lathe, my rifle scope, my first edition Childs—memories of the past will overwhelm me:

Memories of transparent consommés and Beef Bourguignon
Of whittling dowels, linseed oil, and tricky dovetails
Of firing my first single action revolver on a biting, misty morning; the frigid unfeeling of my weak thumb cocking the hammer, wrapping my pointer around the icy trigger, the surge of heat that ran through from the top of my head straight to my toes like a high striker carnival game, and the crack that faded ceaselessly against the open forest range 

I will take my loaded sixshooter, drive to [redacted] and put a bullet in [redacted]’s stupid cunt face.