…memories are realities
ghosts…
BJN
Where Have You Gone To
Godzilla?
by BJ Neblett
© BJ Neblett
Where have you gone to
Godzilla?
Are there no more toy
tanks to stomp,
children to scare?
On a burning Saturday
afternoon
indecisive leather-clad
doors swing freely
their oval panes frosted
with the fingerprints of time,
just two bits a head to
enter the tunnel of dreams.
Yellow brick carpet
worn smooth as grand
mom’s mohair sofa
lumbers into the inky
darkness,
bruised seat cushions
and jealous velvet ropes
smack of popcorn and
promises and disinfectant.
A three-story shroud
yawns gracefully
and the billboard-sized
screen materializes,
celluloid church
commences.
Where have you gone to
Godzilla?
Have you retreated to
your
octagon metal crypt for good?
White T-shirt and blue
jeans
the uniform of the
faithful,
red Converse hi-tops
and pink Keds
become one with the floor
awash in a sea of Pepsi
cement.
Coiled springs bloom like
May flowers
out of the tired
recliners
where me and freckled Amy
Johnson
and two penny Mary Jane
form a sweet ménage-a-trios
in the center of the
sixth row.
War, protests, and hatred
dance on the silver wall
a muddled juxtaposition
of newsreel
and preview of things to
come.
Speechless Tom and Jerry
do what comes naturally
to a cartoon cat and
mouse
with frying pan and
anvil.
Amy’s elbow has found my
ribs
and my hand retreats to
her shoulder.
Hazel star filtered eyes
and 70-millimeter reverie
take wing with discerning
dialogue
and butterfly kisses.
Oh, where have you gone
to Godzilla?
Rampaging terror in black
and white
psychedelic clown in
Technicolor,
there is no joy in
Erewhon tonight
the king of monsters
has gone dark,
the last reel flapping
your dirge.
Widescreen Cinemascope
illusions
have flickered into
letterboxed reality.
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