As/Is







3.15.2004


The Hotpants of Michel Foucault

Cathy said

his pinkened cheeks and
the long red streaks

wrapped around his insoucient
French neck, and

the rope burn around wrists that made
millions of pale and clever college

students
sigh -

"I am blinded by my
Panopticon"

- and the red distant lacquer of eyes
cast

drowsily around the
clever, progressive room,

were the work of the town of San Francisco.
We knew he would sample

the hard-gloss leather of the Disneyland of sex.
Of course he would lecture

bruised

and happy,

pink rubber hotpants beneath
his black wool trousers.

*based on a true story.