MADE FOR YOU AND ME 2: hive Being (Stanzas 2017—part 32)
Let's workshop this stanza sequence about doctors, cancer, pocket pussies, explosive diarrhea, RuPaul, memory, coffins, diversity candidates, God, Gucci products, Wu-Tang, gay electroshock therapy
squat-crapping on the fanned-out covers of outdated Time at the doctor’s office diaphragm-and-spermicide baby ball-dangling defecation on the chemo center’s magazine table of polite fictions does God better hear a prayer when launched from an entire parish? a flash unbuckle blasts diarrhea at the waiting-room bead maze, children slack jawed smashing your head through a window to end an argument pocket-pussy hidden up the makeshift under orifice of the anime plushy realizing that you are starting to forget what she looked like the feeling that there is nothing to do now that you have survived the disease reading the personal anchors she left behind— lotion, a brush full of tangles—not as snakeskin, but as promises that she will come back home it is question begging to say that when the materialist reduces Susan’s pain— reduces it not just to anybody’s complex of neurophysiology but to Susan’s— he fails to capture the qualia of her pain, the first-person what-it-is-like-for-her cold air rolls over the racecar bed and along the floor from the window peeled of its winter plastic for escape fine, but might not the man for whom a wink is the same as a nod is the same as a middle finger smell that you have your balls out in teabag threat? the wise know that even the jerkiest waltzes still follow protocol motorcycle club patches, and the process of sewing them on Gucci bags over homeless legs tomorrow’s admission question for diversity candidates: rate the meme, 1 to 10 you just knew the coffin bed would go once your funk phase was through— and yet here it is decades later driven away by the retard’s presence less from mucus disgust than from how it bars all indulgence in self-pity unchosen immersion in life’s construct unites us all—as NPCs? RuPaul’s tuck: a decepticunt fear that breathing in too deep might allow germs to take deeper root protection of the helpless—an excuse for the glory of conquest treated as if a child for whom they have to pretend no one mentions that people die here too coffins afloat down city streets bared-throat defenselessness is itself a defense, ironclad, around those whose honor (or desire to signal honor) blocks them from exploiting it your friends are still (Wu) fanatics (as you were too back in high school) and, although your intensity no longer matches theirs, you cannot help but whoop along with them—whooping largely to summon the past? bits of steel from the fallen towers given out as gifts not exploiting her vulnerability—his aikido style of exploitation enough gay-therapy shocks to have you forget how to put on underwear the notebook doodles behind what would ultimately be the official Nazi logo outside the only context in which we know them (oval office, NBA court, big screen), they can look like siblings—or even just distant cousins—of themselves when you will do anything to avoid the sickness of withdrawal, who cares what people think about your smell? unable to shake the feeling that all construction, from bridges even to paper planes, is pointless work just to survive—so much to result in what for your children you will later call “the lost years”
This is a portion of an ongoing mosaic poem called Made for You and Me. This portion is from the first installment: hive Being (Stanzas 2016-2020). More specifically, it is from the 2017 portion of that five-part work.
"Squat-crapping on the fanned-out covers of outdated Time at the doctor’s office," a selection from Michael Anthony Istvan Jr.'s "Made for You and Me 2: hive Being (Stanzas 2017—part 31)," continues the poet's exploration of contemporary existentialism and societal critiques through fragmented, vivid imagery and darkly humorous vignettes. This section encapsulates a mosaic of human experience, juxtaposing the mundane with the absurd, and the sacred with the profane, to create a disjointed yet profound commentary on modern life.
Istvan’s poem opens with the stark image of "squat-crapping on the fanned-out covers of outdated Time at the doctor’s office," setting a tone of irreverence and decay. This visceral image is mirrored later by "ball-dangling defecation on the chemo center’s magazine table of polite fictions," reinforcing a sense of bodily degradation in spaces meant for healing. These images challenge the reader to confront the raw, unfiltered aspects of human existence that are often sanitized in polite society.
The poet questions the efficacy of collective prayer with "does God better hear a prayer when launched from an entire parish?" This line prompts reflection on the nature of faith and communal belief, juxtaposed with the chaos and fragmentation depicted in other parts of the poem. The imagery of "a flash unbuckle blasts diarrhea at the waiting-room bead maze, children slack jawed" further underscores the juxtaposition between innocence and grotesque reality.
Themes of memory and loss permeate the poem, as seen in "realizing that you are starting to forget what she looked like" and "reading the personal anchors she left behind— / lotion, a brush full of tangles—not as snakeskin, / but as promises that she will come back home." These lines convey the poignancy of holding onto memories and the personal items of loved ones, evoking a deep sense of longing and the passage of time.
The poem also delves into philosophical and psychological musings, such as "it is question begging to say that when the materialist reduces Susan’s pain— / reduces it not just to anybody’s complex of neurophysiology but to Susan’s— / he fails to capture the qualia of her pain, the first-person what-it-is-like-for-her." This reflection on the nature of pain and subjective experience challenges materialist perspectives and invites readers to consider the limitations of empirical understanding.
Istvan continues to weave together disparate elements of modern life, from the absurdity of "motorcycle club patches, and the process of sewing them on" to the critique of consumerism in "Gucci bags over homeless legs." These images serve as commentary on identity, social status, and the often superficial ways we define ourselves and others.
The poem also touches on themes of vulnerability and exploitation, with lines like "not exploiting her vulnerability—his aikido style of exploitation" and "bared-throat defenselessness is itself a defense, / ironclad, around those whose honor (or desire / to signal honor) blocks them from exploiting it." These observations highlight the complex dynamics of power and protection in human relationships.
In "bits of steel from the fallen towers given out as gifts," Istvan reflects on the commodification of tragedy and the ways in which we memorialize and commercialize collective trauma. This theme is echoed in "coffins afloat down city streets," a haunting image that speaks to the pervasive presence of death and the ways it infiltrates everyday life.
Through "Squat-crapping on the fanned-out covers of outdated Time at the doctor’s office," Istvan masterfully captures the fragmented, often contradictory nature of contemporary existence. His use of stark, evocative imagery and philosophical reflections invites readers to engage deeply with the complexities of modern life, confronting both its absurdities and its profound moments of human experience.
existentialism, contemporary poetry, Michael Anthony Istvan Jr., modern life critique, vivid imagery, fragmented narrative, bodily degradation, communal faith, memory and loss, subjective experience, materialism critique, social commentary, vulnerability and exploitation, commodification of tragedy, human experience, philosophical reflections.
fine, but might not the man for whom a wink
is the same as a nod is the same as a middle finger
smell that you have your balls out in teabag threat?