Dad’s Secret Pornography Stash
Russian tanks came rolling out of the donut hole
just as they were arriving at the Professor’s cottage.
Gilligan, the most recognizable entity within miles,
was perplexed by something simple. Let’s call it
polyphony. The first principles
of dust manipulation. They were left to chance
like a monkey in our collective pocket.
The color orange we can’t wash out.
We couldn’t get old Frida Kahlo off the floor
for walnuts. She was content to lie there
blowing bubbles at the rainforest ceiling.
No one could remember if she hung herself
or stuck her head in the oven or what
& if so what we ever did about it.
Remember, the life you save
may come back to haunt you.
Meanwhile, in another room, boarded up
for winter, their seed propagated a serpent elite
who left for California. Someone downstairs
was shouting “There are no George Washingtons!”
Just before the gunshots we wanted Woolite.
“Here are 98 cents of him!” someone
shouted back. BAM BAM BAM! He, too,
put on his hat & left, taking his soaking wet
boxes with him. “Him and his piranhas,”
said his weeping wife, who’d thrown him out.
Serves her right. Him, as well.
Ah so….
We’ve learned to live with the leopard
under the bed. The head stuffed with dust-bunnies,
the birdhouse with the broken leg.
These are the days Jesus remembered,
Jesus, who these days is Himself just a metaphor
for King Kong & a spicy brand of cheese spread
in an aerosol can who don’t redeem us nothin’.
He is crouched on the floor, holding a silver platter
lengthwise overhead that, combined with its twin above it,
stands in for all our stupid tears.
