Poems By Jeff Bagato

Poems by Jeff Bagato

America’s Porn Star Love

down below heroes

lie the gods of good American mind,

dolly and doll boy of the video revolution

pumped and plasticized for day

dream constitution—you have

the right to your own hand—

at last thinking freedom has come,

but it’s only the mind-blown,

peter soft rent-a-box salvation

coursing thick thru American

veins like a gallon of white

paint in a money shot xtravaganza—

all over the tits and the walls—

never use a squirt when

a flood will do—heavier

love pretends inspiration arriving

in a naked eye; who does

the looking?

                     It’s the frozen

eyes of fear staring thru thick

glasses hoping to keep passions

contained to the screen & remote,

on/off knobs joy ride fast forward—

pause—look closer—we’re just now

going to come—when it’s all over

we can go back to living

deep in the superego duck blind,

the hunter gathering new

ammo for his next load

Life on the River, Ripened on the Vine

Mowgli sits on Baloo’s chest down

the river, smoking hash in a

turf brown water pipe;

“Pass the tube, please,” dreams

the bear as they drift by an

old guy with his thumb out,

nursing a cigar and shriveled

like a pitted prune—if you

are what you eat, they can’t

be that good for your digestion—

and the guy says, “Soup

at the All American, yes

boys, good boys”—

the river patiently pulling at Baloo’s

nuts before he realizes this is that part

of the Amazon infested

with pirahna; he sticks drainage

pipe from the bong below the surface,

and stones every water mite within

three miles in an inky cloud like a great white

octopus from the bowel of Satan—

bleaching the rocks, and

even his fur got blond—

“That’s all I need,” the bear laughs,

“to look like the president

of the United States of America!”—

white people now cheering

from the banks like bees around

fungus, each man seeing a

metaphor for his own fight up the stream,

each blow a good one struck for him

in his struggle, each footstep

made for his glory, that greater good,

linking hands across tribulation, one

long bridge of humanity kissing

ass like a leech—Baloo bellows

“I can feel ‘em from here”—

their words like white

petals falling from purling

lips, an ogre’s maggots fountaining

down on the pair—

“take the stage at your own risk

and walk swiftly lest

they pull the

plug”

Ouija at the Feast

Ouija dons her rags

and enters the illusion—

false colors, false waters,

blind corridors secured

with wire and video eyes,

where clumping slime prays to angels

for a dungball feast laid out so pretty

to feed the masquerade,

all the dancers pushing forward

to grab their share of an everlasting meal,

and so the fantasy begins:

“Once upon a diamond”

(Ouija writes) “we had plenty

and we made it scarce

hiding it in vaults of desire

and put price tags on the beauty of flowers

and took water and air out of circulation,

and so utopia was paved

for magic cars and magic beans

and the magic toys all dumped

from a sack like everyday is Christmas—

No bricks made those walls,

but they stand firm

as long as they remain invisible”

Ouija leaps into the punch

bowl, splashing fruit juice

on the monkeys and the mimes

who riot and wreck

the feast table to the ground

before running into the night

screaming for rain

and winds and destruction