Eric is wearing
a woman’s shirt,
Della Robia blue
during his monolog
which wanders
through the warrens
of offices, dressing rooms,
revealing a concealed creator
who is only interested
in giving interviews,
(what a dick, but God is so
I know you are, but what am I?)
also John, who is getting
a ridiculous massage
from a tough fake masseur,
in a towel, milking it
like a kid at the dinner table,
pretending it hurts.
There is a long joke
about Tunisia
that never quite
escapes Africa.
Gilda is a parody
of New York’s grrrl
sweaty Rimbaud. It’s all
about her armpit hair
at death’s brink,
mumbled punk credibility,
but she’s more
Joan than Patti,
who wasn’t amused
by demonic repossession.
It came from somewhere
else, Gilda’s tank top
channeled Siouxsie early.
We count the few years
she had left. Dan bleeds
to death as Julia Child,
his cut fingers spray blood
everywhere like a Sylvia poem,
somehow hilarious. The audience
loves it. Some coke jokes
because everyone knows
it oiled the machinery
of the ones who are dead
and living. The news
feels very much the same
from year to year. Kate
yoga-dances on Paul’s piano
in a golden body suit
while singing about a man
with a child in his eyes.
It’s her only appearance
on American television
ever, go directly to her
death. It’s okay,
she didn’t miss it.
