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.