I'll get you next time/What happened to that boy?

a double feature! The first half, a poem on 'the (neo)liberal/masculine relationship promise'; a poem from an asshole's perspective. The second, further musings on a stunted masculine presence.

‘I’ll get you next time’

I’ll get you

80% of the way there; crude efficiency is the maxim

optimization be the life force

justice falls to detriment.

why can’t you just accept me, baby?

don’t I do enough?

I care for you, a lil' bit;

I’ll fulfill my obligations,

almost.


let your guard down and I’ll surprise you halfway,

flowers the day after your birthday,

a bike lane down your block, the bikes will come someday.


cut those tears of dissatisfaction, you know I get the job done.

slide you these food stamps and keep you fed 
(but don't get no hot food),

grab you up in a warm embrace instead,

I promise I'm not tryna fuck with your head.


I give you a love you can just quite, maybe, not all the way feel.

'bare minimum bastard'? don’t you like my smile in your face when I tell you to be thankful for this meal?

my heart is in it, but my mind is elsewhere still, 


I'm figuring out these money schemes and trying to hold a balanced budget together before I default,

I can’t cover the kids’ school this year my love, it ain't my fault they’ll have to 

read old books and eat processed foods and maybe they’ll falter in literacy, but they won’t get left behind!

you won’t get left behind, I promise, I’ll never leave, 

I’ll do just enough.  


I’ll get you next time,

I’ll get you in four years,

can you just do this for me though? Can you

help me move apartments? Can you float me some cash,

Can you pay this war tax, 

look the other way while I support abuse and genocide,

fund this land grab

Vote for me, please! Stay with me for the long haul, 

lay with me in the pig sty,

you’ll only get a little dirty, right, 

is your conscience really that much of a price to pay? How about your dignity?
your life?

I'm not asking for much; 
so please don't ask me for shit.

Just remember, I'll get you back
one day.
I'll get you back next time.

---

‘What happened to that boy?’ (or, ‘we (I)/our(my)’)

To the extent

that I’m interesting in writing re: gender in this moment, I’m most moved by the subtle and immensely hurtful ways that we (I) slip into masculinized performances that are disregarding, disrespectful, ice-slick, stone-faced, closed. As we (I) grew out of and into certain aspects of manness, we (I) recall our (my) mom’s sad, maybe manipulative yet ultimately truthful lamentation that the sweet, expressive child she once knew no longer faced her as an adolescent—what happened to that boy? This sweetness having been stolen out of that boy, wrested from him alongside other feminine traits heavily policed in men, taken advantage of in people-pleasing that a certain kind of interlocutor might exact in their domineering relations, it was nevertheless sublimated into/under a colder face, a sardonic and overcorrective asshole emerging who could perform for authority but who could no longer respect it, a burgeoning delinquent who made use of the slippage allowed by his boyish demeanor and high prospects to get away with salacious language and light bullying. Yet and still, the lamentation ('what happened to that boy?') is devastating; and has been offered in one version or another to countless cold faces and glazed eyes, offered to boys accustomed to abuse (receiving, or giving, or both) and unadulterated by remorse until years of reflection later. We (I) remember being this near-saccharine, corny, genuine, incredulously expressive person in so many years and hours, and at the same time wishing that we (I) could or would feel less, be less, until the genie of manhood granted our (my) wish at the expense of stunted dependence and shallow relationships—what happened to that boy?

The peaks and valleys of a wild and unmaintained emotionality have smoothed into rolling hills; more manageable, maybe more mature, likely more malleable, largely less human, a reaction to entirely regular setbacks and rejections becoming a stance of detachment that borders on disembodied. 

How many times can we (I) offer an apology for the same behavior, before it’s who we (I) are (am)? How many times can we (I) lie to our(my)self, before the lie sticks and the truth slides off the fold and into the subconscious? 

A man stands before you, apologetically unapologetic, aware of his faults and unable to right the wrongs due to sheer ignorance, possibly incapable of romantic love and surprised at his own still-present but likely dwindling capacity for feeling anything: what happened to that boy?