Jennifer Michael Hecht
Betty
Grasshopper goes into a bar,
orders a shot. Bartender says,
You know, we've got a drink
named after you. Grasshopper
says, Ya got a drink named Betty?
Yeah, we got a drink named Betty.
It isn’t as much about her
as she was expecting.
Grasshopper learns it over and over
and can’t seem to keep it
in my little green head.
Julep Hernandez visits Alabama,
her host says, We got a drink
named after you. She says, Ya got
a drink named Julep Hernandez?
Naked Man In the WindowWoman called the hotel manager,
said, “There’s a naked man
in the room across!”
Tired and anyway never operatic
the manager came to her room already
calmly apologetic,
then looked out the window,
and wondered, “What’s the problem?
You’ve only got upper
body from here.” He took some steps
over and added, “Here it’s just shoulders
and head!” Said the woman, “Oh yeah?
Try standing on the bed.”
I surrender. The woman’s heart is racing. She is
standing on the bed, projecting her face upward
with every midline sinew of her frame. “Buddy,
ya gotta see the view,” she said, winking
at the hotel’s man, “This guy’s a beaut.”
She says, “The world is a composite of shapes
and colors and they can all be taken on and off
the scene like some transferably-adhesive
appliqué.”
Does she mean to imply
something about the reality
of the naked man? Has she
some sense that he could be peeled
off the background scene with three
fingers and placed like a tattoo,
on her arm,
his past location in perspective
having fixed him
several inches in size,
though still potent in his ability
to inspire?
The hotel manager looks up at her, looks
her up and down, and doesn’t mind it;
raises his eyebrows to signal her
to brace herself for his ascent
and one hop later, he’s up there with her,
looking out at the naked man, “Yes,”
he agrees, nodding, “The guy’s a beaut.”
The manager looks around and seeing
that the door has been swung closed, moves
closer to the woman. Muses, “So much was
hidden from me before I was reminded
of the motives of vision.”
SwitchWhat did the sadist do to the masochist?
Nothing.
To conquer is to let one’s hunger overtake
the other ideas in one’s head, to have dominion
is to flex and give pretense about the nature
of one’s fixation, one must exaggerate
the situation. One generates
ideas.
To submit one has to wait for a thing to fit,
or click, or for the story that got you going
once to get repeated.
To take notes and parrot is delectable as a habit,
as is the repetition of a Sanskrit word,
but, face it,
what we are after
is a really good idea.
Being silent is thus a chore.
Then again, one begins
to yawn and grow curmudgeonly
when others write down what you say,
or when they fuss and act all conquered.
The drag is coming up with all
the words, filling in the time
when none but you may speak.
The world, when one is master, seems so
subdued as to give no true companionship
for one like you, a master. You plead
the room for an equal partner as you wield
your chin and groom your vicious hair.
Being conquered makes the world seem so
endless out in all directions while you are small
and central in your birdcage of a room.
You shut up; repeat what you’re told.
Properly done it may not get old.
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