I am up late tonight, too pumped
to even remotely consider
anything as banal as bedtime.
In two days time a real audience
will be thinking sourpuss thoughts
about my Mordred; applause
shall ensue. That empty chest feeling
after a performance creeps
into my thumb, pushing upward
through the channels in search
of sustenance. My Cousin Vinny
has me in hysterics - and insomniacal
loopiness, coupled with an abundance
of mind-numbing comfort in a home
full of family- asleep upstairs, my wife;
infant daughter, little booty in the air,
snoozing on the love seat beside me;
oldest kid up there not receiving
tooth fairy money for the first time;
the other one probably pissing
her sheets the way daddy used to.
That empty chest feeling
when a good show is over creeps
into my thumb and pushes upward
through the channels in search
of sustenance - Beijing seems more
than enough, what with the billions
and the patriotic music. Mao...
Mao...Mao. Oom papa mao mao.
Oompa loompa doompa dee doo.
They don't all look alike
during the close-ups- retired
Red Army men can be identified
by liver spots; emotional nuance
ekes its way onto the hive mind
faces despite the best efforts of order
to rake out such chaos. I cannot help
but wonder if over the years tiny pieces
of sponge have been uniformly sneaked
into my Won Ton and crab Rangoon.
The BBC commentators sound as proud
as the slant-eyed Commie sheep look:
"And there go the tanks. Blah blah blah
specs, don't you know. Wot wot, blah
blah blah guns, blahtillery. Blah missiles.
Blah pride. Olympics." No blah human
rights, though. The colorful parade
juxtaposes over a grayscale Nazi
Germany perfectly, the commentators
descendants of pre-war speakeasies.
I walk outside into the impending
Autumn daybreak, the warmth
and comfort of my family filled home,
Chinky crowd faces and Joe Pesci
no longer a welcome distraction-
a chill, cigarette smokescreen, and a view
of stars, moonlit treetops and simple, dark
sky bitch slap me into the baby orgasm
of an epiphany: a hefty red chunk of the billions,
and Joe Pesci, wherever he is, and hell,
even the Nazis once upon a time, are/were/is
probably all way better educated than me...
and yet I'll bet they never saw what I see
the way I see it. I'll bet they all saw/see
the same shit but no better than I. I'll bet
they all walked/walk/walk outside just like
this, for just the same reasons, and found/
find/fund/fend/fond/fanned that empty feeling
pushing upward in search of sustenance.
