Under the spell
Of the doctor’s blue polka-dot sweater,
Big Bird revealed the horrors of his life.
His love had always been easy,
He’d left lush clouds & Florida vacations
To teach us goodness & the alphabet,
He’d spent nights dreaming of swans
& feathering a lonely erection.

“I only wanted to be a bird like any other bird, I used to wander flock to flock but found the chirpish love any star receives from fans. When I showed up at dinner parties, the guests whispered: Who invited the bird? They giggled at my yellow afro, my Jewish beak.

Look at me! King of the Muppet rejects: Oscar & his can of rust & sour trash, The Cookie Monster & his greedy Negro mumble, Bert & Ernie the secret lovers, Kermit, the Unenchanted frog! We’ve spent our lives making you laugh, and I’m tired of it, tired of this prison of make-believe!”

He began tearing at himself.
Feathers flew.

The doctor sneezed & his sweater dazzled.
Big Bird yanked til his skin was uncovered,
Twisted til his big head popped off,
And when the yellow cloud settled,

Only a tiny black man remained.
Tears fluttered from his eyes & he sang,
Freeeee! I’m free at last.

Meanwhile, the doctor tugged
A magic button on his magic sweater,
And a giant rushed in carrying a straightjacket
—a big yellow-feathered straightjacket.

Somewhere Tweety was being eaten by a cat;
The Road Runner was running out of road.
The black man ruffled & squawked with rage.

BUTTER

BUTTER

The same old dream: women of the globe on a love strike. They want equal
rights. Power. At first the men don’t believe the threat. They’re content to only
hug their dates. Walk on the beach, even. Content to drive home unsexed.
Maybe tomorrow. All the men think, Maybe tomorrow she’ll invite me in. A little
talk. A little skin, tomorrow.

Then, one by one, they figure it out. No more sex. They realize it squinting over
Penthouse Pets, Playboy Bunnies and old porno of fine retired starlets. They
know it fisting themselves in wee hours while wives sleep, tight-lipped, beside
them.

But power is better than sex, say congressmen and athletes and movie idols.
And power is better than tiny infants whining like sirens. This is what they
decide.

Years later, after the women have moved North to little towns in breast-shaped
hills, the men are so desperate they have slumber parties and hug each other.
Mushy, I know—but true. The women live an arm’s length from the lowest star,
and way down in the valley below, the men ration love like bits of metal in
wartime. Mope around with sunken heads, chests flat as tin. It’s true. They have
eyes dark and vacant as closets without dresses.