Johnny Has A Hog
Say what you will, he enters
a room with presence, if not
aplomb, his faint smile all-knowing.
Rumor circulates like bad air in small
spaces, reaching all nostrils, perhaps
not at once, but inevitably.
All eyes thus flicker belt-wise and downward,
tight faded denim darkened where
the big boy, angled just so, reposes.
Johnny, how goes—your eyes,
that I do not know the color of
them tells me something.
Ask them all, Johnny, ask
all the people to name that
color and they would be as if blind.
Not blind to the bulge, brother.
The eyes do not flee from it or only
briefly do, magnetized, hypnotized.
Johnny, Johnny, are you fully
aware of how we simultaneously fear
and loathe and envy and respect it?
Yes, you are aware. Your persistent
winking lets everyone know what
you know and where you stand.
More absolute than money or status,
more mesmerizing than magic
or voodoo or quantum physics—
all the nodding and handshaking,
all the banal back and forth
and back-clapping, tiptoe around it.
But women, men and everyone else—
cannot ignore its ominous presence,
and cannot but imagine it aroused.
Horror Sleaze Trash 