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 nice.

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 tee pee

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.