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Love Poems To The Stars


Captain Caveman
Sonny Crockett
The Fonz
Harrison Ford
Captain Hook
Maren Jensen
Orgy of Peanuts
Rowdy Roddy Piper
Keanu Reeves
Jesse "The Body" Ventura


Christopher Brisson 1
Christopher Brisson 2
Ann Cefola
Molly Denver
Lonna Haden
Mary Ladd
Katharine Miller 1
Katharine Miller 2
Julie Wiskirchen 1
Julie Wiskirchen 2
Julie Wiskirchen 3

Maren Jensen as Athena Made Me Swoon in Grammar School

Nope. Nanette had had enough, tattooed "cad" and "rapist" across
my thighs. Yikes! Lucky, she spared testicles. A nurse, she knew her
way around scalpels, instruments, how much phenobarbital
the soufflé needed to knock me out: Bang! Goodbye advances
through pajamas at 3 A.M., the prodding, the spreading: "Yes,

you should, Nanette." She had had enough. Couldn't feel a thing. Slept
in pools of irony, my dreams punctuated with sex, death,
oddness. Watched birdbaths spill breastmilk. Saw Corpus Christi blister,
rubella quiver. Semen boiled, meat sang. Bullets softened.
The inductile bent. Yes, Laurette Spang as Cassiopeia

kept me hard in fifth grade. Lycanthropy colluded a comeback
in June, outerspace needs the hirsute. Noon savages the tongue.
Ornella Muti conquers Earth with boorworms. Rice pudding
festers. Laughtracks chosen by windows cushion the funerals,
vulva sport switchblades as anti-theft devices, the dogs beg

for Scotch, my crotch starts to itch. WOWEE! Look at that Pamela
Hensley ("Princess Ardala") fellate Buck Rogers, though she finds
the cock of Flash Gordon a superior thrill. Ouch, sun glares.
My eyes open. Red spackles the mattress. Nanette cries like a
gosling in the corner. My injured prick stiff, swollen; ready

from thoughts of pink magic, Wonder Woman as she spin, spin, spins.

-- Christopher Brisson



Peanuts Love

You are my Charlie Brown
And I, your Peppermint Patty.
"You kinda like me don't ya, Chuck?"
I ask, you always reply, "Good Grief."

I am your Lucy, my heroic Schroeder.
As your number one fan,
I sit forever at the end of your piano.
I admire you, you reply, "Good Grief."

In my heart, you are the fair Linus
To my Sally. I want to be
The blanket that you hold so close.
You are my sweet baboo, you scream, "Good Grief!"

Oh, my Charlie Brown
How I wish I were
The little redheaded girl
That holds your heart, unknowingly.

-- Katharine Miller




Captain Caveman (an ode to)

You were my reason
For rising early
Every Saturday morn.

You made my weekends
A little bit better
While eating my Fruity Pebbles.

You have to be
The greatest superhero
In a loin cloth.

Pulling contraptions
Out of your fur;
Letting loose a rebel yell.

But those days are gone
And so are you.

You've long retired,
Swimming 'round
Your caveman pool.

You will always be
My favorite barbarian,
O Caveman, my Cavemaaaaan!

-- Katharine Miller




Keanu Reeves, Keanu Reeves
He isn't hard to like
Part Hawaiian, part Chinese
He really loves his bike, man

Keanu Reeves, Keanu Reeves
With Dogstar he is playing
To quote from an article in People magazine
"I don't know what I'm saying, man"

Keanu Reeves, Keanu Reeves
In Toyland that babe did sing
For River Phoenix I'm sure he grieves
I don't know anything, man

-- Lonna Haden


Jesse "The Body" Ventura
(in commemoration of his Governorship)

Jesse Ventura, you're number one
When they see you, the Hillbillies turn and run
You've got the world greatest bod
When I first saw you, I thought you were a god
I saw you last month on saturday night TV
You and Hot Rod were something to see
When it comes to talking, Jesse, you're the best
Better than Gorilla, McMahon, and all the rest
Jesse "The Body," you belong in show-biz
You're the only commentator who tells it like it is

-- Julie Wiskirchen, Age 13




Rowdy Roddy Piper, You're the King of the Ring

Rowdy Roddy Piper, you're the king of the ring
You can talk and wrestle and even sing
You've got a great bod and you're a gorgeous guy
I bet you've made a lot of ladies cry
I love to watch you on Piper's Pit
You flatter all the wrestlers and invite them to sit
You insult the good guys and you burn 'em down
You make them want to catch the next train out of town
They all run scared from you and Ace
They know that you'd love to break their face
So they run away scared for their health
With all your talent, Mr. T. better watch himself

-- Julie Wiskirchen, Age 13
( Written for RP before he took on Mr. T. in a boxing match in Wreslemania II)




Seeing Harrison in a Restaurant,
I Wilt Like Lotus Blossom

Harrison, Hari-san,
like an Asian mantra:
Should I kill myself
or bow reverently before desire?

When you looked at me,
I could have slipped
job and spouse off
like twin straps of silk.

You rose like Mt. Fuji
and ladies in lemon yellow
suits and pearls paused
mid-word, bite, fork.

Yes, we'd been visited, blessed
and we secretly told ourselves: adored.
For me, 10 seconds in the mirror,
an aspiring geisha to cinema lord.

-- Ann Cefola




I was in some kind of love with you when I was six.
The wide fantail of your red, velvet coat -
I was no Wendy-for-the-blonde type.
Peter Pan can pick up after his own damn shadow.
He can keep his soaring-dust and Tinkerbell.
You were the anchor to the cast,
Full of rage over the rigging,
Over your on-again-off-again crew,
Over the sorcery of bad management,
And some sidekick named Smee.
Now you're getting long in the tooth
And the buccaneers in your wake
Make you grimace and buckle.
Impudent lost-boy upstarts,
You slash them to ribbons, eat out their gizzards.
They will never get off your ship alive!
What picaroon poetry.
What a hook can do.
I am now the one-of-many women you serenade
With one hand piano.
The one you plunder with wailing and rum.
But your eyes are never far from the water,
Far from the crocodile who has had his piece of all of us.
Green lord lizard and the clock he once swallowed
With his razor mouth and hard crocodile neck.
Time - whole and living --
Laughing at your heels, he is your enemy.
And you throw your heart out to him,
The same soft, wet heart
That has made your face dry and hard.
This is what I look for,
Something beautiful and bewildered under rocks.
As absolute and silent as a compass,
I am a bird on the masthead -
Watching and never watching
A pirate wrestle with himself.
I watch his one sweet solo on the bow
With the raw heart-squall of my powerful sympathy.
And everywhere we grow up, Captain Hook.
I let myself go
Peacefully off the plank
And into the mouth of Time,
While you sink into the shadows of your ship,
The black hems of your pants curling in the waves,
Black hair and cold blue eyes at the water line.

-- Mary E. Ladd




Sestina for Sonny Crockett
(or I was a Teen-aged Miami Vice Fan)

Buying Sixteen at age thirteen was my vice.
Pin-ups of you obscured my bedroom's pink
Walls, you and Tubbs cruising in your Ferrari
Or hanging out with your alligator on your boat.
And this month's centerfold, you in white pants,
Tan chest glistening, your face wanting a razor.

"Somebody ought to buy that oily guy a razor,"
Dad says, "and that poster only encourages vice.
Looks like that schmuck forgot to button his pants."
The line of hair visible in the gap makes my face pink
As Dad speaks of decency. He's missed the boat,
Bitter because he drives a Caprice, not a Ferrari.

Sonny, take me out of suburbia in that Ferrari.
Dad folds your crotch under, since he lacks a razor.
Chest's okay, but no going below deck on this boat.
Dad leaves to forage for oily pork rinds, his vice.
I know he preferred my bedroom little girl pink,
Not riddled with shots of you in unbuttoned pants.

As I watch alone on Friday, Sheena Easton pants
Moaning as she touches you in the speeding Ferrari.
In garish Miami, the streets are conch shell pink
Paths dotted with white powder from a razor
Blade. You and Rico Tubbs go undercover, the vice
cops with the cool clothes, the hot cars, the fast boat.

I fantasize about knocking that Sheena off your boat.
Then she's shot by a Cuban in parachute pants,
As if my lust has evil power, my dreaming a vice.
A Phil Collins dirge plays as you brood in the Ferrari.
Before the funeral, will you break down, buy a razor,
Wear black or the usual white with a T-shirt pink.

Above your tan Gucci loafers, your ankles are pink.
No socks can be found on shoppers at RV and boat
shows. Because of you, Wal-Mart sells a special razor.
Men with perpetual three day stubble and crisp pants
Take dates to the auto mall to sit in a sleek Ferrari.
Junior high posers steal Ray-Bans, dabbling in vice.

The show-ending sunset is pink, but there is still vice.
Someday I'll be on that boat and in that Ferrari.
I unfurl my pin-up. Is that a razor in your pants?

-- Julie Wiskirchen



Click on the
thumbnail to open
up a bigger picture
of this celebrity obsession.

Ode to The Fonz

He's better than gold,
Silver or bronze
The love of my life,
He's known as The Fonz.

My palms are clammy
My knees turn to jelly
Just give me a minute
With Arthur Fonzarelli.

My heart swells with love
Wanna get me some play.
I get tipsy with lust
When Fonzie says, "Aaayyyyyyyy!"

When it comes to cool
He just isn't dinky
I envy the role
Of that woman Pinky.

Potsie's a dork,
The redheads are too.
So Fonz gets the chicks
-- That's nothin' new.

The jukebox is stuck
On "Head on My Shoulder".
The fist of the Fonz
Changes songs while I smolder.

-- Molly Denver



Horns and Mutes

Born 1st of January 1900, Xavier Cugat married
astonishing Charo out of libidinal motives
solely, many would have you believe.
As a frequent dinner guest at the Miami

compound, I feel compelled to tell you
much the opposite: their love was large,
the real thing. Never have I seen
a couple bridge the decades

with as much tenderness, humor
and respect. What it was to watch,
after finishing a divine banana
flambé, the lady of the house

take to the small bamboo stage
that was at one end of the dining
room, while Xavier retrieved the marimba
he kept in the sideboard for such special

occasions. Oh the hips and makers
we drank! This was in the period 1968
to 1972. A time in which I burnished
a little nut of envy for their meaningful

glances across a room, the way Charo
after a number, would straighten her "Exee's"
narrow Hermés tie-- "Exee" short for both
"sexy," and X-avier, and the way he'd swim

in the deep sight of his estrella as if she were
limitless nectar, bath water, ticklish
rain. Charo's hair was not piled as high
in those halcyon days. The extra height,

layers, occasional extensions, would be
only one of the changes I'd encounter
in 1974, two years after embarking
for Madagascar to conduct research

necessary to my work, a time fully
disastrous for their marriage as a worn
Xavier was to tell me over a long dinner
at Le Cirque. "It wasn't her, it wasn't

her, my friend. Esto es mi culpa. Si.
One day I woke from a sticky afternoon
nap and all I could think of was my childhood
cat, a red-backed Persian with slightly darker

feet. I was in panic for not knowing where
my little Concepçion had been buried,
and from that moment I couldn't get
anything accomplished. I didn't want

to rehearse for days and days. And
as you know, days and days like old ladies
knit themselves into weeks and months;
and all the while I continued to think

of sitting on the roof of the icehouse
with Concepçion in the summertime,
her back legs outstretched as we lay
on our stomachs for a hint of cool slate.

The only one nimble enough to climb up,
she kept me company and I brushed her.
But I don't remember the circumstances
of her death, God forgive me. I still can't.

And this is what haunts me, as I was old
enough to have remembered." At this
admission, I ordered additional drinks,
not quite sure where we were headed.

X continued: "I made countless calls—
to Mollet, Gava, Rubi, Tarrasa, anywhere
and anyone who might recollect
the circumstances or whereabouts

of the grave. My household walked on
eggshells. Charo knew, the staff knew:
I would not live life a sane man until I learned
where lay my companionable puss.

Charo, bless her patience, tried, tried
to understand, but could not alleviate my
anxiety, the fear and then the worry shifted
to the woman. Not inside her, no--it was my

own madness for her. For I love my Charita
more than anything in this shiny world
and terrified I was to forget a single detail
of our times together, as I had with my

dear Concepçion. So you see, amigo,
all my energies collected on a couch
in the arbor, regardless of the weather,
as I lay still--listing, compiling, gathering

in my head the strands of the glorious
braid our life has been. I tried to recall
every glance, sigh, kiss--even the fights—
God bless them--and the idle thoughts

in those moments when work kept us
on different continents. She begged me
Write a memoir before you go crazy.
Surely, I lose you this way. But I refused

to write it down, convinced careful notes
would be an old man's crutch. I decided
to rely on the fingertips strumming inside
my head; I would organize my thoughts

like a big filing cabinet in a New York City
office. This made my Charo a total wreck,
so I tried to explain to others who might
then explain to her, but no one understood.

I'm surprised she held on as long as she did."
Our broiled squid arrived. I ordered an iceless
Tanqueray, Xavier drank plain seltzer owing
to his diabetes. "Make no mistake, my love

was overwhelming, constantly growing;
thrilled with its size and fearful to shrink
like a man with a good physique who breaks
one or more arms. I did have some big

muscles in my youth; Charo never got
to see them. No matter. The greater
her love was for its independence
from such transitory charms. Oh, my

friend, I am rather glad you have been
an ocean away, insofar as you, and you alone,
come fresh to this mess with two eyes
truly startled. All the others watched in

increments, their opinions long muddied
by vision too near, too fluid. I tell you a secret:
I feel like the maraca my mother kept
after the soldiers pissed on her furniture,

and broke her wedding china for the sake of
making noise. We came home from Church
on a High Holy Day to walk over the shards,
to smell cold urine. These men had heard

that the poorest townspeople hid gold bits
in their maracas for fear of government
banks. Made of teak, these instruments
were resilient, could not be smashed, so

the bastards took bayonets and hacked at
the handles with some effort. To this day
I try to sketch their drunken faces, hope-
soured, in my parents' living room when

the dried lima beans tumbled in a soft racket
to the dirt floor. 1 wonder, did they scramble
out, nostrils hot, to rape the neighborhood
girls I knew from the walk to school, chicas

ravaged for nonexistent gold too well hidden
by the parents? Till death my mother kept
one of her great-grandfather's hand-painted,
mutilated maracas on the mantle, and never could

I quite believe it had no music left. And now,
my wife estranged, I find myself crouched
in its quiet empty inside, desperate
for a rattle, a sound, the life

I despoiled,
lovingly, and I don't know how on Mary's Earth
I got here.

-- Christopher Brisson


Visit Ape Culture's Own Celebrity Love Poet, Joe Durrant
for poems to the likes of: Lynda Carter, Sherman Helmsley & Dana Scully

Read more Ape Culture pop poetry.

Add your own celebrity love poems here.


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