Maypole

A mildly pornographic movie with dead actors
apocalyptic floods and philosopher-king figures
no attendance in the dingiest of grind-houses
no one in the audience who understands the formulae
of floods, rosy crosses, coprophilia, carnevalian loony-bins
old men who move in cul-de-sacs, wheeled by nurses, or play with themselves, vacantly.
Sets of leopard-skin, papier-mache, brass rings, and gossamer
cul-de-sac gardens, group-gropes of street extras in the summertime
This is the day on which memorial day is celebrated
a day for the fallen

Shot on the prairie, the sunlight at its peak heat close to sundown
some enclave known to pioneers but far from BMW dealers
out-of-synch hands flailing upon multiple keyboards
stilted dialogue among currently out-of-work actors
modern high-rise office scenes shot through convex-mirrors
hippies dressed as executives frantically smoking cigarettes
bad color separation, the edges of the film stock breaking
into rainbows, the discoloration of faces, the ghostly white backs
and buttocks as much a function of age as cheap production

the pornographic episodes with half-naked nurses dyed blue
a behaviorist in grey wig reciting stilted dialogue from a helicopter
overlooking a satyr festival on a prairie or on dry chaparral

floods, a burlesque stage in the Tenderloin, a bump n grind ritual,
men in lab coats, liberation theology, hackneyed counter-cultural statements
shot on the cheap, bad film stock, horny priests, template
of repression, hypocrisy, paper-mache gossamer phallus raised
in the middle of the desert among Anabaptist hippies congregated
around it, with the protagonist strapped to its base, cheesy graphics,
enough quality or the grind-houses however, old men asleep in the seats
with their zippers down at three o’clock in the morning, the lights on.