He wore gold rings.

His father told him that only perverts and pimps

enjoyed bling.

He adjusted his ruby,

as if,

he was King.

There were people

at work

who wanted to kiss it,

but they weren’t worthy.

They could kiss

his ass, instead.

Charles

locked himself in his office

and drank coffee.

Occasionally, one of his coworkers knocked on his door…

“Yeah,” Charles said, in his most monotone voice.

“I need you to sign.”

“Okay,” and he did.

Then, he went back to thinking…

in his 300-dollar suit.

How could he rise above his circumstances without working?

He wasn’t opposed to work, but he saw what it did to his father.

The old man was a nervous wreck, worried about all the airplanes he had built

that might fall out of the sky.

Charles didn’t care what happened to him, or to anyone.

He prayed for nuclear war.

Lately, he tapped into some hidden power.

He felt it coming from the radio, on the classical music station.

He felt it in his blood, when he drank wine.

There was electricity in his footsteps, when he spoke in front of an audience.

He had authority

over people and animals.

Yesterday, a squirrel tried to steal his sandwich, but he snapped his fingers, and it passed-out.

A parent yelled at him on the phone, but he told her, “Everything is going to be fine,” and she believed him.

Nobody could understand him, but he understood everybody.

Soon, he was the master of the universe–

all-knowing, his power growing.

It was the best feeling, to wake up

in the morning

as Charles—

even the traffic obeyed his screams.

He was the King.