A multi-media artist living near Washington, DC, Jeff Bagato produces poetry and prose as well as electronic music, glitch video, sticker art, and pop surrealism paintings. Some of his poetry has appeared in Empty Mirror, Futures Trading, In Between Hangovers, Otoliths, Your One Phone Call, and Zoomoozophone Review. His published books include Savage Magic (poetry), Cthulhu Limericks (poetry), The Toothpick Fairy (fiction), and Dishwasher on Mars (fiction). A blog about his writing and publishing efforts can be found at http://jeffbagato.wordpress.com.
Viral Load
if your swine flu isn’t perfect
make it perfect;
if your hepatitis isn’t
perfect make it perfect;
if your diabetes—
if your hypertension—
if your herpes—
if your AIDS isn’t perfect
make it perfect
in the land of the free and the heart
of the storm,
in the villages of parkland,
in the world of the perfect,
the proud,
the mall-bound
worshippers of ceramic disease—
collectible, hand painted, numbered
and limited unto infinity
and the 4th dimension,
with certificate
of authenticity intact
your perfect gangrene;
your perfect melanoma;
your perfect pneumonia,
scurvy and gout;
your perfect TB and
MRSA
immune
to penicillin, amoxicillin,
and the wonder
cocktails of chemical chains
that cannot bind perfection,
liberty,
prosperity,
happiness and wealth
the perfect sunshine—
the perfect day—
the perfect wiggle,
jiggle & bounce—
the perfect
jeans with the perfect
fit—
the perfect measles—
the perfect dysentery—
the perfect malaria—
the perfect cholera—
the perfect nausea of a fluorescent
hallway day
Shit on a Stick Corporation
Fried shit on a stick
on TV
on the dark
side of Mars—
greasy reaching out to
embrace the universe
where every rock has eyes
weeping coins onto the sand,
quasars pulsing radio
signals faster
and faster out
to satellite relay
My operator,
my switchboard
makes a connection—
once upon a time
in the kingdom of Atlantis
they fired up some offal,
some yummy, chewy,
crispy,
unmentionable part of the hog
battered up & natural
juicy with its own juice,
fat to drip down your chin
when you first
bite off
the tip
In the freezer section
you have to
imagine that
moment
as pictured on the box, as seen
on the commercial,
as heard in person when endorsed by Bigfoot,
I mean, Elvis or Elton, or some guy
with a stiff upper lip, or that lady
who used to play that hooker who
cracked her gap-toothed gum
so chuckle,
so haw,
so hee hee,
so lorf lorf lorf lorf,
and so
whew!
No,
not her,
no—
but the other one
from the oscar winning
movie where she was pregnant and fought
off the mob with one
hand and masturbated
a monkey
with the other
Not so haw
haw hee,
but it was a good
one
How richly that made her
bite into that first crust
& tongue au jus
as it sprayed and then
drippingly oozed
down her chin
The camera held
high, at a jaunty angle
to portray her
passionate and sincere
recital:
oh america,
oh atlantis, oh mars, oh
I feel the fullness
of my feelings of my heart,
of my soul
in my belly—
in my
belly
quasar pulsar beep beep
to the radios
of stars
& all
in
my
belly, oh
malignant tumor speaks from the brig
(or, eating from the same trough)
Let me offer you a deal,
an edge
that will turn your paper
into gold
& keep you on the cruise
line unto Alzheimer’s—
the ship sets sail
today with a paid ticket,
puts your kids through college
and the Hummer
thru the gas line;
we build our pyramids tall
& strong
& pay out reg’lar—
the hamburger
sizzles on everybody’s griddle,
and you get
freedom fries with that—
if you can
just
wait rock steady
right here,
right now
let the market
bully up some exuberance
for the chocolate covered turds
& used Kleenex,
bloody tampons, and
you get the drift of second
hand smoke
(equal deadly to the first
smoke as you
come
to find out)
the buffet opens in just a few
more hours,
loaded with
hushpuppies, bread lines
& soup kitchen rolls—
are you rolling?
we shoot craps
and the entertainment!
first class all the way,
with a parade of paper pushers & buck
whisperers & all
the president’s men
highstepping
& hat tossing, and
squealing with popular songs
of sixpence and
jiggety jig jig
keep sniffing from that
feedbag filled with glue;
such sweetwater
so good for what ails you:
a glass a day
keeps the bears away
get yours
at the altar with the thin
dimes & the (economic) resurrection—
as the priest
prays from his ledger,
you sleep soundly in the pews;
just keep your plastic
handy for when he
passes the plate
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