Jared Leto

Jared Leto
by JoAnna Novak

His cock the size of a baby’s arm
Fist a Golden Globe
The nod came by phone
At four in the morn

manhood w/o golden tones
Aureole dulcet, down we go.
Hey babe, no pies
Like most,
on his whiteboard he wrote rules.
Cashews, tequila.
2006—his sweats were loose.
His sheets icy.
His toes hairless. 

Sabado: conejos para el jardin o la cama.
His bronze argent bod.
A man or a trophy?
Mons or two-ply? 

Back home, my dog slept the Steinway.
My brother smoked cigars soaked in Stoli.
My parents stayed steaky,
Coiffed and carrot-topped.
I was that other girl,
New York chicken.
Boob coke.

Summer summing nothing
And winters even worse
my long chocolate hair
to my waist until the thing with the grill
twelve inches came off
Red hot gold flames
Honey wings
Chalky corn
Icy sheets of snow

Another email with the subject “Let’s Talk Pie.”
The lattice elastic.
The brown bridge bottom.
The apples juggleable.
Absolve thee thy crust.
Men and their fine diets.
No, we did not use food.
He was no pizzas, no pies, no sugar, no juice.
How many did I kiss I couldn’t count, couldn’t say.
Chee-chee-quitas. Besos, mejilas, mijas.
To account for aurals, gold bars
abacus beads. I mean girls’
backseat voices, bangle laughs stacked like chips.
Voiles and stick-ons, moirés and moues.
They sing along like their cards won’t be dealt.
Four and twenty aces baked in a pie.

In his green hummer, he played me gonzo porn.
I had knees
gold dreams
French heels.
the agency warned. 

That’s my pumice stone skank ganked, my Tweezerman.
That cunt, my Alaiia.
We were grabby, unbuckled, heedless, cum-mongering mackaged,
largely broke.
In each other’s hair.
Sometimes I puked in bags. 

Every club has a theme.
And there we were, helping you disappear.
Towering flowering bowers.
Mantequilla skin.
Emulsify, like, just a drop.
My cheek a slab.
Your wrist over fire.
Ten ponies make a brush.
Andale, andale. Anglaise, Anglaise. 

One man threw a note.
His cock a grandfather clock.
One man took my pictures on the wall,
women in refrigerators, vampy and bound.
Ice cold. His cock
wishbone-big. Never tired
—this joke.
A tree stump.
A shot glass.
A slingshot.
A catapult.

When we flew, pools like Jolly Ranchers.
Classy ones, blue-bottomed, in-ground.

We traveled so cazgh.
We didn’t have to spell well.

Butter parlor glory years and then I died.
JK—stayin’ alive.
Cuz no pies, no pies.

Tweezing, I counted to ten.
Do you know how I felt?
Like honeycomb in a trunk.
Melted and melting.
A mutt.
Hung with ten amulets.
Trailing a man in loose sweats.
He was really big, zapping Haagen Dazs
bars to nail roles.
I spit in his double chin: it bubbled up gold.
His stomach folds, just done peach pie.
His cock
some place
the names don’t age well.
Meaning, men, in my bag.
Merry virgos, heirs to elfin furs.
Alone in my German,
I was four rooms and champagne,
Younging my life. 

That dumb kind of song
He sang all the time
So fly, so fly
Like I was gone
A perennial girl
An endless bus ride
A Big Ben clock
The water, my hand, his thigh
A Swatch

Through fields of thick eared corn
Through swarms of wine-drunk swallows
I don’t know much but the birds are slow to take off
Black wings and pinot beaks 

He fingered my lakes
Montauked my butt
Gross? No we ate each other out
Like girls deep in thought
Headphoned and hairtied
It was Amsterdam or 2nd Avenue
Ring around the cock

So then I came home
My family was like, uh
Blinking all whatever
At who I’d become.
And the dog strummed show tunes.
There was my brother
Exfoliating the shower,
Whaling his futures,
clogging the drain.
My parents were shepherds pies and hula hoops.
Yeah, that was Illinois.
Thank god for wireless.
tireless thinky virus.
Tambien te quiero mucho.
Si, si, mhmm—overheard, understood. 

And now I hate walking, so can you please park up close
And can I please sit up front?
And can I have another water?
And have I told you his cock
Felt like the front door
Every minute was another minute I wasn’t eating
Google swimscore
I fell asleep and dreamed of stiff pics
Peaks, cream, caramel off the lid
Frappucinos with flat tops suck
Like Walgreen’s headphones
My nails too
But in my dream, my manicure’s fine
I get it French, no one cares
My hair's uninsured
I remember most of my twenties
Then I wake up.


JoAnna Novak is a writer of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry, and the editor of Tammy. Her work has recently appeared or is forthcoming in The Atlantic, McSweeney’s, The Rumpus, DIAGRAM, Paste, Quarterly West, The Los Angeles Review, and other publications. The author of four chapbooks, her first full-length collection of poetry will be published in 2016.