—On the way to Jupiter Ascending I remembered my first of several proms and the burly janitor who picked me up with no remorse. There were a couple of sparrows on the road ahead of our surly, speeding car. And then just a blur of burning bees. It was a terrible date. He never talked to me once.
—Now a Talking Heads song is trying, quite desperately, to be upbeat in this nearly empty theater. A little girl with a red bandanna lures at me from another dimension. My friend Lisa used to LOVE the Talking Heads. The last time I saw tall, thin Lisa she was stroking a horse on Facebook. And those pics of her lounging around on a white perfect South Carolina beach. She called me up one night complaining about Science Fiction. I wanted to love her. But the conversation was like pale Chinese food.
—My dad’s just arrived with a huge hot dog. “Cool your jets,” I tell him. “God will punish you!” And sure enough a Paul Simon song’s come on. And it’s already played for a hundred blurred out years and the ground’s crawling with snails. And a mutated rat’s gnawing at my foot. Once, during sex, Paul Muldoon whispered in my ear that he’d talked some real dynamite and “poetic” shit in a limo with Paul Simon in front of Yankee Stadium. “Only in America,” he whispered, as he kissed and again my Blarney Stone.
—The hot dog just fell down on the floor. My fault. But it landed on the plate. No snails. No rat. The people in here look like they’ve escaped from a mental hospital. O, my daughter: Mila, what have you done?? Soon I”ll have surrendered, completely stretched out, and ready to be harvested. They will sell me in upscale pharmacies. My DNA inheritance is corn, bees, wolves and hot dogs. Why waste time on a golden telescope? Mila, you should have been ready for The Matrix! ( Where’s my date??!! I need more hotdogs. And a pile of endless tenderness. I like to drop Nachos down my throat while the little creatures bounce around on the screen. Have my meds kicked in yet ??) Mila, I love you, my baby: but I do not BELIEVE you are cleaning that toilet. And what the frick is the deal with those bees ?? Queens are matter of luck in the Human Kingdom. All those shapes in the corn. And the pyramids! (wink wink).
—My date’s waving a $20 bill in front of my face. A line of twenty old men who can’t seem to get the stream started. All movie they stand in the bathroom screwing up their faces in time-acquiescence as they try to squeeze out a few miserable drops. And Channing Tatum put your shirt back on. And get out of the barn! One star for yr paltry helix, man. I know my Mila’s no Meryl Streep but next to Channing she is like a Ferrari talking to a donkey chained to a tree in a swarm of mosquitoes.
—George Clooney’s voice is hurting me: a playground filled with swans. Their feet are so sensitive, charming. Italian Villas float through their souls. And climb on to my back. In Cuomo I am afraid of God. But we all go skinny dipping. And George hovers over us like the Holy Ghost. I wonder if Channing’s ever skinny dipped with George and his pack of wild swans?? The water laps at my feet. Space ships come and go. They have the souls of stale popcorn.
The movie was bees, wolves and a bunch of really bad acting. (I love you, my baby, Mila. but,.....)
editor's note: we're filing this one under Live Poeming and Sight Unseen because, well, who the hell knows anything these days