Marco Rubio

By Teddy Hempstead

I keep having dreams about Marco Rubio.
They aren’t very sexy or romantic.
Mostly he is sitting in trees
or tall wheat.
Similarities:
Me and him share a love of Toronto,
we are both young looking men,
with a history of public embarrassment.
We both have kind eyes when asleep, I assume, from the dreams, where he is sometimes asleep.

Marco Rubio has hands,
and a face, and legs,
and feet and aortal cavities.
And lungs.
Marco Rubio is a senator in Florida and he comes from Miami.
I would like to be a senator living in Miami
but you must have been born in the USA,
and apparently it’s quite competitive.

Another problem – in my dreams I have to confront
whether I would
or would not
contest Marco Rubio for a Republican senate nomination.
They are very stressful dreams.
I think I probably wouldn’t.
Usually after this I dream I can feel leaves
or fronds of leaves
touching my face, and I am in a clearing, and then I wake up.

Awake, I go about my life asleep, seeking Marco Rubio.
I seek sleep in libraries and conservatories,
in backyard tents and under reminiscent fronds.
Foliage is very important to the botanical life of the nation.
Marco Rubio is very important to the foliage, probably.
The tulips look like Marco Rubio supporters.
I am fond of the foliage, and of Marco Rubio, whose name is Marco Rubio, in dreams and also not.

I can’t stop saying the name Marco Rubio.
Even standing here trying not to I can’t stop finishing interminable lines without commas with the name Marco Rubio.
He is a very handsome man
with a good neck
good collarbones
good cheekbones
great bones. Make America gaunt again.
I do worry, of course, that it’s becoming an obsession.
His parents, immigrants, washing plates, waiting tables
like I have never had to do, not even once.
His childish noble gorgeous face growing,
12 years old,
a kid,
playing baseball,
Richard Nixon is resigning,
there is a New American Love
there is a drug war and the television is coloured in.
I imagine tiny Marco Rubio
– his name is Marco Rubio –
gazing at the television.

Am I Marco Rubio? I think I might be.
I’m probably not but I definitely am.
Marco Rubio, repeating the same soundbite
five times in a row
his mind on his daughter.
Marco Rubio, talking to Jimmy Fallon,
thinking about fighting with his wife about eggs.
Marco Rubio having to look at Chris Christie,
smug,
the kamikaze establishment pilot of South Carolina.
Prince of America. I have never known what the American Dream is but now I do.
It is Marco Rubio, extremely alive, probably a child, possibly with my face.
His dad washing plates
the fronds of the foliage
my own enormous love bursting every night, alone, in the dark.
In love with a stranger again, what a surprise.
He has beautiful hands, and I wonder what he is worrying about.
Is he thinking about Donald Trump, an unaesthetic man?
I think Marco Rubio might be an aesthete.
I think Marco Rubio might be a tuneful string quartet.
Might be an errant dog or randy lamb.
A wet book or abusive circus flyer.
Marco Rubio is the window in my flat,
Marco Rubio is my scarf, coat, necktie and shoelace.
Marco Rubio fills my dreams up.
Is this love?
Marco Rubio walking in Paris.
Walking along the Brandywine river.
Walking into a big red car.
I think Marco Rubio is in love with me.
Why else would he spend so much time with me?
I don’t even say anything,
I just sleep,
but god it feels nice to be loved like this.
I think we are probably in love together.
I think we are probably in love forever.
It was my birthday on Friday – is this really how being a teenager ends?

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