poem: the ick after “big red son”

in faraway — two-and-half-highway drive, the California
heat de-panels into California porn, sitting in summer light
lace tanktop and gold Cross/Saint medallion, I am kept —
meeting the underworld only through the clay feet of
once glamorous men, now revealed to be down in the moral yuck, he
says the sexualization of real life versus actual real life, I think
I undid this thread as a teenager — art as relevance doesn’t justify
vulgarity; okay, decided. now strange world of glistening
men and makeup-caked to “crow”-ness women — if they
can be called wo–, oh stop, they are still – but still
the distance! this Revolting so close, the move-star horror of
it — dear author, my disgust/revolt, my -phobia is coming, even the
pun is sick to think, at this time. I think I will keep myself
un-threaded, no hero worship, no Saints but those declared —
the sunshine says please leave us, please come — to open air.