Shoulders and Breasts

shoulders and breastsShoulders and Breasts
by Jefferson Hansen

On the news today they told of a man
who photoshops pictures of world leaders
in radical ways. In fact, he turns them into
drag queens. Barack Obama wears a barely-there
stringy blue dress with plenty of cleavage.
He has small breasts but no chest hair.
Good for him.
Vladimir Putin is in a red turtleneck dress
that is completely sleeveless. We see his muscular
He sports a large, diamond necklace that
hangs between what would be his breasts.
I could go on. German Chancellor Angela
Merkel wears a double-breasted men’s suit and a
tie but no shirt. She may or may not wear a bra,
but I bet that she does not.
Even beneath the baggy double-breast, one can see
something droopy about her breasts.
The shoulders of the jacket seem impossibly wide for her.

The point, I learn, is to show that leaders are pure performers.
The artist wants to point out the theatricality
of political performance.

But I do not SHOULDER buy it.
Of course politics is all BREASTS theater, but
we must distinguish between actors with a nuclear
strike force capability and those who barely get by
on measly paychecks. We also must SHOULDER distinguish
between BREAST those with the power to profoundly
affect the economic and social conditions of their underlings
and those who, at best, make millions and millions
a year by trouncing around in front of a camera and mouthing
the words of writers according to the directives of the director.
SHOULDER. In short, a paid or amateur actor performs
according to a frame strictly established by others.

Politicians also perform within a frame that precedes them.
But SHOULDER, come on, there is a difference between
leveraging a given social role in an open-ended improvisation
that is constantly reoriented—the politician—and an actor
who knows what is going to happen after the first read-through
of the script. A politician has no script. They maneuver and leverage
the givens. BREAST. Pointing out that politicians role-play and perform
begs the question: when is anyone not role-playing and performing
to a certain degree. All the world is not SHOULDERS a stage. Shakespeare
was stupid and could not account for the edges of metaphors.
Indeed, ol’ Will is the most overrated shithead of all time.
If not for him, we wouldn’t have this dumb ass artist
photoshopping our dear world leaders who are free to fuck
us up as much as they want but rarely do for fear
of a coup. Shakespeare, that shithead, preceded this photoshopping
artist by five centuries, give or take, and his metaphor was more
SHOULDERS all encompassing.

Are you a shoulders or breast person?

photo credit: Headless and Naked via photopin (license)

I Ended Up on my Tush

i ended up on my tushI ended up on my tush
by Jefferson Hansen


to start again or again
to startle against the pressure
of a thick white sky
some birds forgot to sing today

but some others didn’t
which ones are which
beyond my desires to know
or care today

a car without a driver
warms beneath my window
on this sub-zero morning
its exhaust hovers long

and spindles up
up as I am this morning
going on two hours now
too cold to enter

right now, although later I will
lift weights to the tunes
they pipe into the gym,
then shower in a stall

because that is what I do
these days, watch cars warm
then exercise, which isn’t bad
I lose weight

for the sake of self-satisfaction
and to follow the orders of
self-help television gurus,
they do know some things

you know
not unlike the absence of squirrels
in a winter too cold even for
them, and the point of an end

as if strings going every which way
could be gathered into a knot
me, to present at a conference

of disaffected journalists
all posing a hope for a better day
as a way of furthering their
way into a careerist niche

although they must have believed
it at one time in some way
in order to end up there
in the first place

don’t you think
my cynicism lasts only as long
as my lack of faith in
humanity which can carry

you only so far
did you ever consider how often
and how much you must trust
others just to drive down

the street
just to get through the day
consider how many clerks you trust
with your debit card numbers

desperate people, perhaps,
living at minimum wage
and pressing buttons and being pleasant
on cue just for a lousy buck

it’s a wonder sometimes
we don’t all jump up and down four times
then go for each
others’ exposed throats

I suppose the impracticality of it all
prevents us from relying
on such measures
the threat of the police

have you ever wanted to hurt someone
I’m not sure if I ever
seriously did or not although
I have gone for the emotional

jugular on occasion as have
we all I suppose
and I did hop in the ring
once to nail another

guy in white collar boxing
I ended up on my tush
photo credit: Poterne des peupliers via photopin (license)

Because It’s Not Warm Enough to Think

because its not warm enough to think

Because It’s Not Warm Enough to Think
by Jefferson Hansen


Because it’s not warm enough to think,
there will be little thought here. As a matter of
record, there will be next to none. I will cel-
ebrate all that I didn’t, disregard all I did.
After all, recording is not thinking, nor is a
cell. A cell is one little part of a record, you
see. Therefore, recording and to celebrate are
as if one. Which is not thinking. Because it
is too cold. Therefore, I will only record cells,
as in blocks, as in breaking out of this prism.
You see what is given to not only the process
of the eyes, but the very processing of that
in celling the record, more than halving the
display. I record a feeling of sadness this mourn-
ing. I wish so much that is simply wasn’t.
Oh, by the way, wishes, I should note, are not
thoughts. They can’t happen, anyway. It is
too cold.

photo credit: Cold View from Crown Point via photopin (license)