Wooden crates full of CPUs and thatched pajamas;
worn forty-fives brimming with the melancholy
baritone of Bing Crosby and old blue eyes;
stack upon stack of siliconed Hustlers
baring mama’s best,
just so Uncle Ben and
Orville Redenbacher
can clutch
their cocks
and feel less
lonely.

Collect!
Collect!
And glut
that inner Adam West until
your bowels burst tiny clones,
all priced at 89.95;
consummated consumers that buy and buy
more Billy Mays borne OrangeGlo
so all those johns can sparkle, radiate –
disease free –
but only if you pay
the forty bucks
for the
full
damn
trick.