Truths My Dealer Told Me

I.

The band onstage at the Tijuana nightclub
was not Jane’s Addiction, although
they had the same tattoos.
“Nothing’s Shocking” was all over
the radio. I had heard a guy play
“Jane Says” on an acoustic guitar.
It sounded like Peter, Paul and Mary
in his warbling tenor. I found that
shocking, the same way I find
domesticated foxes. The way I’m unnerved
by manicured lawns in planned communities.

II.

The secret to grand-theft Disneyland
is to become a cartoon character, to be garish
as your surroundings. To pile your head
with souvenir hats and stuff your pockets
with plastic remnants of marketing campaigns.
When they catch you — and they will —
they will drag you to the subterranean prison
that Walt built for the eventuality
of civil breakdown, for when the gangs
and Mexicans and Communists march
and the Magic Kingdom is the only bulwark
of Western civilization and values. You
will be paraded in front of three bored kids
who were caught filching candy on Main Street.
You will transform into a cautionary tale, without
the benefit of musical score. There will be
no wacky talking animal sidekick, but afterward
you will be released from the park, exiled and stylish.

III.

You want this to be some Hallmark tearjerker,
but here’s the truth: It started with a Hershey’s bar.
It started with a polar bear hawking Pepsi.
It started with a clown selling burgers.
It started with that “Star Wars” toy you couldn’t afford,
It started with playground ridicule of knock-off robots.
It started with the uncomfortable fit of hand-me-down shirts.
It started with every thing you want lined up across a phone line,
pretty birds in a row, taking to sky at your approach.

IV

There is no reliable narrator.
The man behind the curtain
just wants to chill and watch cartoons.
Give up the ruby slippers.
Take a ride in a balloon.