Sex, Our Badger and God
The badger’s in the kitchen
making chai.
He says he learned how from
his sensei.
My wife and I are settling in
to watch that
new Hollywood blockbuster:
Jackpot Vernacular,
starring the ingénue, Sunday
Lipinsky.
I tell the wife, boy would I like
to and she says her, too.
The movie takes our mind off
the wrecking ball
poised outside our plateglass.
It looks like another
planet, that’s what the badger
says. Only to a
badger, I think, but I smile my
reassurance.
The chai is hot and spicy and
as smooth as a blowjob
so that we forget the holes in the
movie’s plot, the
holes they try to patch with Sunday’s
ample backside.
It’s almost enough.
“Snuffle,” says my wife and the
badger is pleased.
“We have to get rid of him,” she
says when he leaves.
He seduced my secretary.
I contemplate this and decide that
her secretary
looks a lot like Sunday Lipinsky.
I wouldn’t mind, etc.
The movie rattles forward
a little longer
but our concentration is shot,
like Kennedy,
like the moon.
We decide to cover each other with
chai and see what happens
to our sex lives.
It’s not a bad way to spend
the afternoon, even
if you know you have to let
your badger go.
And, when I mount my loving wife
like a cowboy,
I think her ass is as good as
Sunday Lipinsky’s.
It gets me through. It gets me
to the other side.
It gets me and it gets her and we
all muddle along,
as the rain begins to genekrupa
the roof,
and the wrecking ball glows
as if it has conjured Dr. Dee’s spirits.
The arc of its intention
is something to see.
So I cover my wife’s nakedness with
a quick cairn
as the world shatters,
shaking its myrmidon coat, a wet god,
now appearing for the first time,
almost too late.
Horror Sleaze Trash 