Bryan Wilhite: void this misogyny
void this misogyny
void this misogyny
avoid this misogyny my peculiar hatred of a familiar with you of a political biology
my careful study of your ability to control your bladder better than i
means you can defer relieving yourself until, maybe, your mid-forties your chromosomes of patriarchy pushes to provide you the stamina to consume and put up much shit in the nervous introduction of the “boyfriend” and i hate your for it
the real woman was made up of asking-why chromosomes but radiation treatment during media sessions, deforming you from visionary to tele-visionary, and drug therapy in exchange for human stupor contact has reduced you and i hate you while i covet your genetic material a fine human linen soaked with the semen of the dominant, brutal individual your marriage to him was only status breeding he had the means, it appeared, to build your pedestal
you embraced the possibilities in such masonry you granted him a degree in socializing engineering and turned your attention to tabloid details entranced in the bacterial consumer culture, getting on with clean american “normal life” on a white plastic dollhouse dish peppered with marijuana seeds
—over 19 square feet of personal retail space and the sales floor keeps growing…
you purchase this male vessel the proposed chamber for your exhale shaped like a father figurine manufactured with the same colors and textures of your dream house
this picket wooden object should not clash with your décor, accented with a motif from the Isle of Lesbos, sunken “treasure” looking to be recovered, threatening to surface
and i hate you for it
i am not enough of a “man” i am not enough of a “man” to take command of the cowardly moments when you are passive and hiding in wait desires quietly standing in plain sight when the nudity is only your body, revealing nothing i am not enough of a “man” i am not enough of a “man” to further intoxicate your mystified numbness to carry out the trance to the little princess to pour on the macho bottled confidence
i know it’s something like that and i hate you for it
you,
with no intuitive childhood knowledge of a functional two-parent household:
it was only mother keeping you out of the kitchen trying to prevent poisoning she fixed a child-safety seal on your adult life of adult intimacy grown-folk, co-ed, communal homemaking you see there is no mention of him since he “ain’t shit” baby, you on your own grab that fashioned male: you want you and a chain of hyphenated last names
to digest the conflict pass him through your mind and body as an erotic emetic
but thousands of complex dollars have been spent in the family court of sophisticated law and the mystery, still not put to rest and i hate you for it this bulky trinket is still your man and you know i am not this man and how much youth shall you rend on this man?
you know i am not this masculine ornament your refined sophistication your years of education is stunted, tuned, narrowed down to detect only this fine point i miss the mark, being not the subject of your anthropology, being not your vanity publishing in expensive psychotherapy the cologne of the strongest odor pours into you yes, the button with his car keys and the metallic vibration of a soothing phallic voice deep in a chest…
“i have a voice; this is a real man”
“he is the most effective, the most rewarding”
“i can see it; it is so easy for me to feel his power”
—your attorney, she has the photographs of the face wounds to prove it —fifty percent of all marriages end in divorce and, no, the glass is half empty
—and i leave the pathos of domestic violence for your football-hero poems
—heart failure is your leading cause of death and i hate you and your bad, non-conscious decisions
and i hate you when you want to get away from me politely checking for your safety
i am not the grave matter inherited from mother i am not the life or death issue i am simply not attractive to you
so i am gently repulsed like a toddler with full diapers i am left pissed off and waiting to get laid on the change table of the perfect mother who would command and wipe me clean american
so my private parts can cool from my own body heat
so my excretions and discharges can be recorded
surely all of the details lie in my genitals like all the rest of us that came before me?
for this, the embryo expects… the infant needs, baby can i call you baby? or am i simply ugly and alone in this? until we meet again i say,
nice to meet you i’ll grow out of this
and you say, “you do that.”
happy shopping…
half off…
year-end clearance.