Sunday, May 2, 2010

How Jagermeister Resuscitated Buck Rodgers’ Soul

Those wooden rickety pillboxes
that stand about the woods under mossy
shadow-canopies scare me.
Half-demolished by Ewoks, two-legged
Imperial stompers that creak drunkenly
among the trees, shooting twin lasers
at furry animals, they merely just
STAND there. I mean…
But a type of Buck Rodgers that lost self-awareness
masturbates in there to kill time,
and to fondle the deer tail
that used to be attached to the hypersonic glider
folded at his feet. He will be lifted up

before the Jagermeister crucifix
dawns shimmeringly on the open field,  
before his bloodlust starts smelling
like moldy armpits, and be soft like
the stuff growing under his toenails. Which
is why those wooden pillboxes
scare me. Folded inside of them, in
addition to these hunters’ coffee
percolators and the blueprints to
Elvis impersonations they don
to stun dumb animals with humor,
is everything you don’t
want to know about.

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