It’s so America,
so nineteen fifties,
so Main Street nostalgic, so
Karl-Marx’s-brain-would-explode-by-the-time-he-hit-the-churro-cart capitalistic.

O, corkscrew—
You’re supposed to be easier,
easier than the one with
bird wings that press down,
and pull the cork up,

In bed does he shout, “Action!”?
At some point does he say, “Cut,
let’s try that again.”?
I don’t know about you
but I couldn’t handle
242 takes.

It nestled in the crevices
Of my glabella
Embedded like a ruby
In my face of ore
Where my crimson jewel
Sets ablaze your valleys
And melts your tundra,
The flame to your flint,
I am queen of Mars

Swatting back and forth
Posturing menacingly
Flying magic swords
Remembered tempo and feel
Departed master’s fighting hands