Hear the clamor from Mount Olympus
echo through the cloudless blue sky,
no thunder, no Titanic resurgence,
just the howling of Ares, who is missing
the USC-UCLA game because Aphrodite
won’t stop watching Glamourella.
Whenever the remote control is missing,
the pissed-off pantheon blames
Hermes, while Zeus flicks bolts
to station hop with such poor results
that Dionysus points out the beer
models that need his static touch.
Before Hestia left, she and Demeter
could agree to watch cooking shows,
but Zeus and Hera’s desires almost
never coincide, just on principle,
nor do they snuggle on the thunderbolt
throw pillows during the Olympics,
which suffer from the lack of real drama,
the ripping of limbs from fallen foes,
the kidnapping of athletes’ families
to make them race faster than the four
winds, to jump higher than the golden
chariot slicing the sky into bloody orbs.
Apollo himself tends to refrain from
the kvetching about who gets to pick,
but marvel, ye mortals, at his radiant
pouting when twin Artemis records over
sweet Delphi City Limits on the DVR
with
Cypress Sally’s Buck Hunt marathons.
Everyone hates when Poseidon visits
and turns to undersea documentaries
or cartoons where he wears a starfish
crown, the latter enough for Athena
to question who is really in charge,
and the television turns to wrestling
on both sides of the screen, plastic
cups of ambrosia spilled on the sofa,
Ares distributing noogies to sisters,
Phoebus handing out solar wedgies,
until mighty Hercules picks up the set
to smash it over Hades’ dark head.
The pieces end up in the rumpus room
next to a bent harp and Olympia Beer
sign on the fritz with Hephaestus forced
to rebuild the cosmic set with 4D tech,
swollen feet and sadness that comes
from watching so many lost episodes.