He’s actually working for Al Qaeda,
but no one in the audience cares, suffused
in his buttery glow, his Tiger Beat prettiness.
The human dreamsicle arrives dripping wet
and turgid, a tsunami of manipulation
with the solemnity of hemorrhoids.
He seduces the pleasureless, single mother
with smoochy-woochy shower sex;
straddles a roomful of gape-mouthed ladies;
washes everything in the overheated glow
of Thomas Kinkade, panting in our ears.
The inner conflict of this buff, occasionally
shirtless philosopher-soldier transitions
to a sinister, simulated love, PG-13 ecstasy;
demons lurking beneath with excellent teeth.
We wait for our own shell-shocked drifters
to track us down, read us Melville, and hit
the sack; we rise like soufflés, arching our backs.
June 6, 2012
The Lucky One