Whupped

 

Spring Sessions I 70 x 50 cm mixed media on paper

WHUPPED

                                                              And what about women? He asks. Yes,

                                                               I think to myself, what about women?

                                                                                                Jack Gilbert

I like to watch them on TV.

She moves languidly across a suburban lawn.

Running shorts, tank top, hair in a twist;

she stretches a little, then jogs into the light.

I love to watch Jessica Jones thoroughly kick  

the sorry asses of some ugly rugby players  

who are trying to mess her up.

Who would want to hurt her, even if they could?

That meta-cool black leather jacket. Messy raven-wing hair.

Lips like some hybrid delicacy (grapefruit spliced

with strawberry perhaps) harvested every

fourth autumn in paradise. Why do I feel like a total idiot?

Soon I’ll be comparing her to a summer’s day. Only she can’t

hear me. She’s on Netflix. In the goofy hope

of a little eye contact I’m standing on the wrong side

of a body guard’s folded arms. She can’t even see me.

Had I not been born male, I’d be a girl with a thing

for flannel shirts and the martial arts, playing

softball in Berkeley and lusting after Kristen Stewart.

An asshole I know once said, “You’re pussy-whipped, dude.”

Oh really? I just like the way their minds play, “bro,” and how they

feel my pain, seem a little sad, even while they inflict it. 

High at Hyde Park

High Wire Act 100 x 70 cm mixed media on paper

STRUGGLE

You are something I’d like to climb over.

I guess we could call it “will,” the druthers of your mind

--I’d “ruther” do this, I’d “ruther” not do that--

I’d love to set it like an egg timer.

Listen to it tick—peacefully—while I stir something.

Eggs, sausage, a drop of pancake batter on my finger.

The willows are sighing softly, which is

much better than wheezing noisily.

Any omen that enhances the protocols

of the season and I’m in all the way. You have

said that too. In your better days

when talking was an item on our agenda.

The drunks have left off singing, they’re

just tired now. It’s three in the morning,

you say, and I thank you ( a little solemnly) for the update.

How did it get to be so late so early?

We are moving and standing still at the same time.

Fairly certain physics cannot mathematize this sensation.

Science was not designed for such undertakings, e.g.

Sandrine’s hair color cannot be verified.

The pipes are wheezing, and this is no enhancement.

She’s in the kitchen, fumbling with breakfast. For which she too is not designed.