The Turn
at one moment
I was on stage
with love
my mother—
but at another
she became
Judy Garland
a lioness
fiercely
protecting
every inch
of her ground
[Adapted from: “Remembering ‘Mama’ with Liza Minelli.” Michiko Kakutani, NY Times, March 4, 1984, Section 2, Page1. https://www.nytimes.com/1984/03/04/arts/remembering-mama-with-liza-minnelli.html]
Men in Black
They dressed like Mormon missionaries
but instead of young and nervous, they
were often middle-aged and cool
like old school hipsters.
And rather than try to convert you
to a secret and marvelous
if improbable story, they’d insist
to your face they were never there
before shining a light that erased
any thoughts you had about them.
Yet they were the they who we all meant
when we said they were hiding the truth from us.
And their insistence on not being there
made the possibility all the more believable,
even if only in the echo of our déjà vu.
And they knew this, in their wisdom,
the depths of which we cannot hope to fathom.
So, they decided to hide in the brightest light they could find
and in front of as many eyes as possible:
they told their tale on a movie screen to prove
they were a joke. Who believes the people in
blockbusters exist? Only the most rabid fans—
precisely those who’d never guess
that the cause of their obsession
was their inability to forget quite enough.
The People on TV
The people on television move so slowly.
They walk through big houses and stare into wide spaces
where meaningful discussions appear. Animated clouds
of talk, stirred by laughter, tears, anger, and catharsis
produce thunderstorms on the plush rugs
where they roll around with each other,
disrobing in awkward clenches, wrestling
with the narratives foisted upon them by invisible
characters off screen, who theorize our desires
and write to them. You can’t help but feel sorry
for these earnest, two dimensional souls, who struggle
mightily with the stereotypes prescribed to their situations
like drugs that enhance socially desirable dialog.
For in every episode, even as they bask in their own beauty,
you feel we make them anxious, as if we were problem children
whose hang-ups their masters could only hope to solve.
The Sadness of the Household God
six-inch
rubber Godzilla
on the glass table
over the green silk rug
wants to be more
to link up with the bigger than himself
you can tell
the way Godzilla growls
in silence
pink mouth
white teeth
no flame
no sound
this is six-inch rubber Godzilla
not CGI Godzilla
not man in rubber Godzilla suit Godzilla
in post-atomic Toho pictures of 1956
but rubber Godzilla cannot be more
rubber Godzilla is locked
in rubber Godzilla world
you can feel rubber Godzilla
beat with painted claws
on the nothingness bubble
that keeps Godzilla locked
in rubber Godzilla world
this is a tiny, claustrophobic world
six-inch rubber Godzilla feels the lineage of giant Godzillas
be Godzilla inside
Godzilla wants to be Godzilla
St. Godzilla
prophet of all Godzilla forms
has told his disciples
when you learn to be content
in rubber Godzilla
or whatever Godzilla world
when you learn contempt
which means you say “whatever”
when you find yourself in
rubber Godzilla or any Godzilla world
then you will learn the great joy
of becoming nothing Godzilla
but St. Godzilla
was once movie star Godzilla
before the great renunciation
so, becoming nothing Godzilla
is not so bad
for him
it is a relief
but not every Godzilla can say
“better to have been movie star Godzilla and lost
then never to have been any Godzilla before”
Godzilla wants to be Godzilla
The Eloquence of Commodities
There is that graphic of a parrot on the tissue paper package
staring at the buyers, as if to remind them of the power of speech,
especially if it is an animal saying unexpected things.
Once there was a lizard who spoke in a British accent, selling car insurance—
he guided us to saving 15% or more.
Then there was the silent bunny who trudged with a battery on his back—
his determination spoke volumes.
And remember Frankie, the mounted fish,
who gyrated his blue-green head and sang:
“Give me that filet of fish; give me that fish.”
Who am I but an ad for something—
a product or process to whom I give voice
but do not understand.
For it commands my thoughts
from a higher plane of meaning.
Scan this image to watch it
within this little screen
appears another screen
within that screen
someone points at me
sticks their tongue out
like people do at parties
to signify they are wild
and having a very good time
and then this person speaks to me
in a language I don’t understand
the blank mind of its algorithm
attributing to me an ability
I do not possess—
its own lack of comprehension
speaking to mine—
two blank screens
blinking at each other
as if at this moment
we inhabited a deserted drive-in
where the audience has sped away
in frustration, irritated that someone
has turned the projectors off
