Marilyn Had Caulk On Her

Perhaps technically it was spackle,
But it wasn’t the first time and certainly not the last,
As I usher her inside the store room
For protection
From the painting and construction going on inside the erotic museum
Being redesigned
By a porn magnate

The place has an affinity for me
But it will not be the same,
Its free-form deranged exposure of porn and popstars and ancient artifacts and electro-sex toys and dildos and transexuals all mismashed throughout are nomeneing organized by the heteronormative:

And the lesbians will be showcased downstairs in the open while the gay men and trans women will be relegated to a cordoned area in the back
Because Heaven forbid a straight person be caught off-guard by gay porn,
Be thankful they have their own section at all,
This is a business move,
Because tourists in Las Vegas don’t like their boundaries tested or their buttons pushed.

Today I carried Japanese sex art and movie posters and clay works and boxes of bondages that featured Bettie Page, and yes, the gay men,
Down stairs and through a fluctuating maze of bookshelves and glass cases and fruitless sweeping done nine times over,
And helped a small sparrow caught in a corridor get outside,
Gave it water and oatmeal
And watched it miss a small gnat that buzzed around lazily
And I understood how it felt then,
Chasing with a hunger a prize that slipped away,
But still resolute to chase another day.


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