Nadia Arioli is the founder and editor in chief of Thimble Literary Magazine. A three-time Best of the Net and Pushcart Nominee, Arioli’s poetry, artwork, and essays can be found in Rust + Moth, Hunger Mountain, Mom Egg Review, Permafrost, and elsewhere. Arioli’s latest collections are with Dancing Girl and Kelsay Books.

Harpo Marx Watches Pornography

for the plot, see, and it’s the zaniest caper he’s ever done. 
It’s performance, of course, the porn, not him watching it,
one hand in his moppy hair, the other on his honker, not that honker,
the literal honker, the one that goes Beep Beep, him watching
the pornography like that, that is art. Harpo Marx watches 
porn between takes on his latest film. It’s funny, he thinks,
not funny ha-ha, but funny as in strange, because he likes to be very clear with himself,
it’s funny that my films are in black and white, but pornography is pink. 

Harpo Marx watches porn for the plot, the pink plot, the pink parts, 
holes where whac-a-moles could come out of but—most often—don’t, pink
parts, we all have them, with their squishy, squelchy sounds. Harpo Marx
remembers fondly his early films, the ones without any sounds and how
the title cards and the viewer’s imagination would fill in the gaps like jelly
fills donuts, sweetly, satisfactorily, and not at all like a train into a tunnel. And 
wasn’t that the best part?  Here, in porno world, everything is spelled out, 
nothing is implied.  Here, there is no cute little mystery and it’s wild
and it’s the same and it’s wild. Harpo Marx watches pornography,

same as everyone, except for the liars. No one has to know what Harpo Marx 
is doing, and it’s not  so filthy when you think about it. Again, it’s for the plot, but
Harpo Marx would rather not answer your questions about it, or her
questions, or his questions, or their questions, or anybody at all’s questions. 
He’d rather not say anything at all, if it’s all the same to you, which 
it might be, or might not be, but it’s not his concern. Harpo Marx watches
porn for the plot, and what a plot it is, in this current video he’s watching
with his headphones in, blank expression on his face, the plot is a good one. 

The plumber in the porno that Harpo Marx is watching is punctual. Punctual as fuck, 
you might say, well, you might say it, Harpo Marx would never, he’s quite a serious man
who doesn’t say anything. The plumber is handsome in a conventional way,
with conventional features and manners. Sandy hair, blue eyes, a body that
says fuck machine. The woman answers the door and speaks in a baby voice
if that baby had a cold. Oh thank god, she says, the leak under the sink is leaking
water everywhere, and I’m so wet. I can fix that, says the plumber, who then
breaks out his instrument. And so on and so forth. Harpo Marx watches it all

with his big eyes, his big innocent eyes, his silly little guy eyes. Gulp gulp,
go his eyes, while the characters in the pornography Harpo Marx is watching
also gulp gulp. Oh Harpo, thinks Harpo Marx, when his is finished—finished 
watching, that is, it’s just for the plot, he hasn’t, um, finished anything in a while,
Why are you like this? And he reflects on it for some time. He is tired, he supposes, 
of the presumed innocence, the frenetic motions needed to make music, the 
constant dynamo of laughter. In the next film he watches, he decided to watch two
films on his lunch break this time, he deserves it, as a treat, the people, the man
and the two women, they know what they are for, and that makes Harpo Marx choke
up a little bit. Their purpose is so clear. They’re making art. It’s ridiculous 
and stupid and pink and not in good taste. But no one is laughing at all.