Mickey and Minnie hosted a soiree.
We killed ten in May; they were back by June
while the Mars Café sold a hundred trays
of fries each day, cleansed in canola oil.
Just down from Journey Into Inner Space
was our rat hole, a door nobody saw.
We cussed in under-park tunnels, made days
magic for marks as un-mustachioed,
supporting-cast. We’d sneak oral and waltz
to get paid, shuck the shit-suits and go home.
Some artist in the sixties drew them all
shooting up, fighting, pimping and whoring.
I Xeroxed it and papered my wall. We
would get baked and hysterical: Daisies
spread for Goofies, Donalds counted the bills,
Plutos lifted their legs in wet salute.
|"Mask" by Arthur Gonzalez|