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Postmodern Village
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And the Mountain Exploded. And the Deer Leapt in Air. The End.
by Christin Call

"Please, ma'am, speak into the mike."
Her pigtail braids are fitted with
espionage equipment, the wires weaving
like Pippy Long Stocking's
to create that upside down double arch.
It must've been the first product placement
in a movie. That and her resemblance
to Wendy.
("I doubt that."
"Sure, I'll let you."
"I don't need your permission."
"Oh.")

She swiftly pulls the lampshade over her
head, just in time, so they'll notice
and pretend not to. Then someone very famous
makes a pass at her.
It makes the fringe waver back and forth
in her laughter and fear.
"There is green hair and then
there is fire-green hair."
And then there is Puff the Magic Dragon
who got so sick of the boy--

"All he wanted to do was frolic
in that Goddamn autumn mist.
Do you know how old I am?"
The braids pick up the rheumatoid arthritis
like the quivering of Nixon's jowls
in every incriminating tape recording.
"Be a good Samaritan once and
they cling to you much more efficiently
than saran wrap."

"Someday I want to meet a boy
who can go five minutes without
talking about his..."
She swallows nitroglycerine and
turns on her bulb head
to be less conspicuous. "Suppression, naturally."
It's positively fabulous how one can
pretend some things were never said at all.
Unlike actions--("Hey, Ronda, will anyone
ever hire our best friend, Pee-wee again?")

"Would you please tell me what era
this is again? I was sure the Argonauts
had all died out by now."
Jason pulls Medea close, thinking
how the iridescent blue eye shadow sort of
simulates intelligence, if you try really hard.
Plus, she endured the smelly fleece,
he a battle with claymation skeletons.
What else is there to expect?