transformers on the table

this one might be more potent. it's one of the poems from my (last semester's) independent study in poetry. Professor Cook loved it, if it's any consolation ;-).

The Myth of the Male
or
Transformers on the Table


Odysseus hardened by the salt
and the sun on the seas
all those ten years. All the women
who want him. Bond, James Bond
and all his harem, leggy chicks
perfect for lusty Dicks.
(Dick Tracys of course.)

Mom:
"Joey stop crying and get your
transformers off the table;
go have a battle with your brother
in the yard or something while
I get dinner ready.
Remember your hockey practice
tonight; tomorrow soccer.
Real boys don’t cry anyway
look at that Ravage, he
would never whine over a little bruised
ego. Take him with you when you
go and turn him into that machine you
know is in his heart."

Dad:
"Cybertron, Wolverine, Mecannibals, Death’s Head,
those are the guys you want to emulate.
Indiana Jones—he’s got it together too.
Big-muscled men to ward off
the bad guys. Better ward off those bad
guys and save Lil’ Red from the Big Bad Wolf.
Otherwise you’re a puss, a wus.
And you don’t want to be labeled
cunt. (All you want the puss for is the conquering.)"

All the men together now:
To the gym we go to beef it up
(we’re beef you know; the meaty ones
cause we are what we eat and beef is for us.)
The art studio, the pottery class
is enemy territory. Only homos
and metro-what-the-shit-do-you-call-ems
walk upon that feminized ground.
Kill the infidel! Crush the weak!
The weakness is not in us. It must not be in us.
Pump it out with testosterone.
Pump the chicks full of sperm.
Chase it out with subwoofers’
throbbing bangs.
That will make you a man.
A machine of a man.
Able to transform in a second
to the Ubermensch of every
girl’s dream. We are the
Ubermensch.

Don’t question it.

Or the metal might rust
and the flesh might peek
through and you might prick us.

We might bleed emotion
and show you who
we really are:
waiting to be loved.
Waiting to be known.
Waiting to be made flesh by

the sound (or touch) of flesh
the touch of a voice
on our metallic chests.