a walk in the park in poetry

It’s not that I want to punch the PERFORMERS in the balls.
It’s just that I want to punch the costumes where the character’s balls would be.
I’m not a monster. I just wanna wail on Donald Duck’s nuts.
I paid my money, I should be able to nail the Country Bear Jamboree in the junk.
I can’t be alone in this, it is only natural.
It’s half the reason they made theme parks, right?
A couple strong smacks at good old Sleepy’s sack?
I never do it because I’m not supposed to but
at the same time I know I should be able to
I would be able to if they understood what the real appeal was
for an adult to go to what’s primarily a children’s theme park.
I am in my goddamned thirties, Space Mountain is not scary.
The appeal is getting to be in a weird alternate world for a while
intentionally constructed to convey a kind of other reality and
other than watching Captain EO in 3-D a couple of dozen times
what you really want to do is interact with an utterly fantastic world
in an utterly impossible and fantastic way:
you want to flat-out break Roger Rabbit’s marbles.
You wanna slam Grumpy in the dopeys.
You wanna live out the dream
of taking out your aggressions on
the things that put your life’s failed
unattainable dreams in your head in the first place.
You wanna pummel Goof’s troops.
I wouldn’t do it but it’s okay that I wanna.
It’s not that I want to punch the PERFORMERS in the balls.
It’s just that I want to punch the costumes where the character’s balls would be.
Consider it a return to agency
against the mythology that makes me
feel so ripped off by this life, sometimes.
Wham bam
right in the nostalgias.
Just once, just once
just one punch
I’d like it.