By now we know
the Berenstains
weren’t Jewish,
there was never
a bear
who was stein,
all of those many
matzos
going to waste ;
permanence
dematerialized,
whenever Scotty
had been asked
to beam me up,
without the post-script
placement of his name,
and it’s also there—
in Vader’s revelation
to his son, never really
addressing him as Luke,
only to die in the film
that shortly followed,
without a chance
to bond together
over pints.
I remember
scouring my children’s
books in search of
George’s tail—curious, unable to
recall the way by which he’d
lost his swirly appendage—
not to be confused
with Madeline’s
appendix,
her scar of now you
see it, now you don’t,
depending on the version
of the doll
that girls were given.
I never should have
started this
annoying exercise,
distracted by the hook of
Bette Davis
Eyes, Kim Carne’s throaty hit
from ’81, thinking it was
all the boys
think she’s a spaz
when it’s been spy
for 40+ years,
a 007
of sorts,
and not a hothead
throwing tantrums
whenever she stubs her toe,
yet another Mandala
Effect—
damn, it’s Mandela,
after the Nelson
who never died
while kept in prison,
that it’s had nothing
to do with Buddhists
all this time.
Andreas Gripp
November 25, 2024
RF Image
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