a construct, a fallacy, a lie

Do you believe life is eternal?

Do you believe Mother Goose went

through menopause?

Do you realize how expensive

lobsters are?

Do you fathom a man

equipped

with a plastic heart

who may begin to live longer

or who may turn into a clone

as he sits home watching

“The Price is Right”

and “Family Feud”

or reruns of “Barnaby Jones?”

Wasn’t he too old to be a cop?

He had white hair; he must have been ninety.

‘Course he had Betty

and Betty was friendly.

But he had to be a hundred

if not two hundred

at least.

And he drove a Ford, I imagine

‘cause all them cops do,

‘cause America is the land of

ghosts like Jesus

and Ronald Reagan

and Stove Top Stuffing

instead of potatoes

‘cause potatoes are

carbohydrates

and we all know what happens

to people when they eat

carbohydrates

like potatoes.

Only life was much nicer

when John Boy wrote in his

open window

about the lovely happenings

around him.

Did he ever get a rock thrown

at him

all those years

writing in an open window late

at night,

I wonder?

Did an apple ever careen off his head

or a stalk of corn

or pig s**t from the barn?

Did he ever yell out the

window?

Did he ever say,

“You damn beauty mark you!”

Did he ever get mad at Olivia

and call her a b***h?

Or was life on Walton’s Mountain just

like living in a teepee

in Minnesota?

Eating wild rice,

vinegar,

and fruit juice.

Passing joints

and singing “Louie, Louie,”

even though we never knew the

words,

just sang them and

laughed.

It had something to do with

ladies feeling uncomfortable, didn’t it?

Or was it about Margaret Truman’s

agonizing autobiography

“How Come Harry Wore Holes in His Socks?”

Or did Henry Kissinger figure in?

It’s doubtful.

Although the accent fits,

but not like a glove.

Perhaps like a garbage bag

or can.

Or maybe we assume

the ridiculous

is just a matter of

ejaculating the awkward parts

and rejuvenating the

Soul

as we know it

to be

or not to be.

But I have the answer,

though the question was

ambiguous,

even though he wrote like a

madman.

Or was it really Marlowe

behind Julius Caesar

and Hamlet,

that fine young Dutch lad

with a penchant for suicide

since his mama called

him and told him she

never loved him,

just raised him ‘cause he was cute

and deductible.

And as he stood

visa vi

with me

I said, “Good-day”

and he crushed the skull

because it smelled funny.