Memoir With Tarantulas And Fudgsicles

Like one of those baffling foreign films,
everything begins crisp and distinct,
but smudges to a blue, befuzzled blur.
Mexican tarantulas have nothing to say.
Things that used to sting go unnoticed.
The mornings all swallow each other
like fog fellating floating phantoms.
It’s not unlike clouding black coffee
with too much unnecessary half and half.
The girl whose dress you slipped
above her hips in a nook on holy Delos
and entered like tomorrow’s promise
is now a society matron in Connecticut
with four great grandchildren.
Youth’s Triumphs have become Saturns.
Your heroes fall like withered leaves.
You have never eaten cassowary stew
and now it is certainly too late.
On your last road trip, the markers
flew by in a boring panorama of
dripping, dissolving Fudgsicles.
What happened to Burma Shave signs?
Breathing speeds up as it slows down.
The definition of tumescence eludes you.
Your garden attracts no butterflies and
the nectar they knew has vanished too.
Every swing set you pass is empty.
Mysterious lawns now elicit only yawns.
Maintenance is the king of your world.
Hurry, do up those dishes and die.
These are the days that were that are.
None of this matters much to anyone,
but it means all that’s left of you.
The director frames the final scene,
you know, that slow, inevitable, long shot
where it all turns gray and fades away;
one flick for which you’ll never pay.
If you like this piece, and can afford it, consider donating. The Muse says pay up or get out…

