At the Movies

Follow the yellow brick road with me. See
the cornstalks, their long sheathed green
cobs, how they snap to attention in front of us,
tall and firm, pulsing with life, those fair golden
fine tassels whispering under a warming sun. But
all that glitters alarms me. The moving pictures,
how they lie. The fictions we follow, wind
around curved and sliding corners, encountering
stuff that isn’t stuff. As with you, old Scarecrow,
stuffed with straw that’ll burn you up if you can’t
always get what you want. And a Tin Man who
creaks no more, for the oil is squirted into him,
so he may be said to be well-oiled, you see. I say,
that’s the way he would be, clattering around
in staggering circles meaning he wouldn’t last
the trip. Cold inebriate. What ho, Lion so much
a coward he cannot roar. Heck, man. Imagine
the dark musician who sounds the gong not being
able to hold up and swing his massive beater?
You three leave Dorothy and the dog alone;
they’ll travel faster without you sack sad souls.
Nah. JK. Go Go! Pluck yourselves up and run.
Join with the stars before the popcorn’s done.

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