The Stash – by Victor Jizzly

Poetry

Oh sweet treasure!
I
n the attic, neath a board:
A long-forgotten hoard of adolescent pleasure,
just as I’d left it, by the side of the road to carnal knowledge,
on my way out the door to college,
in its same duct-taped, contractor bag:

 -A rough-cut, furtive collage
of lingerie girls
who migrated from catalogue to manila folder
(it occurs to me now that I’m older
that the voids in mother’s ads surely were missed,
adding another unspoken favor to the list on the heavy side of the ledger page,
marked “because I was at that age.”)

-A well-thumbed paperback
that signaled the time the Hardy Boys succumbed,
and were supplanted in my florid mind
by this collection of  letters of confession to a Penthouse madame
from the members of a larger-than-average club,
perhaps recently set free from the prison,
of their pants,
and also freshly-released, by a serendipitous, fleeting tryst
unbelievably avowed by the fictionally well-endowed,
whose meetings are now enshrined
in these lightly mildew-lined, antique pages of utilitarian readings.

-What a time capsule this video would be!
Those women in their MTV fashions with their enormous hairstyles sprayed high
while mulleted morons labored over them after a pizza delivery.
Descrambled and pirated at somebody’s uncle’s house
from the giant, parabolic dish pointed incriminatingly at the smut satellite on the horizon.
But alas,
this betamax tape may as well be a wax cylinder for Edison’s prototype talking machine
with its contents to remain forever unseen.

 -And lastly, a slight stack of Playboys,
maybe swiped from some newsstand or other, or forever borrowed from an older brother
and packed with Hef’s mannequins plying their bloodless ministrations
following some airbrushed surgical renovations
holding my teen brain in a stranglehold
with each unfurled centerfold.

And the whole, magnificent, fossilized cache unearthed
by my darling, little offspring archeologists on this trip to grandma’s,
in a festival of mirth
and presented to their mom in my mom’s kitchen.
No need to dig for an explanation
during my blank-and-red-faced mental vacation
as my stunned, frozen smile melts
in brief, slow-motion
i
nto a pool of embarrassed realization.

 Victor Jizzly, the poet philosopher