it seems that anybody
who’s ever read a comic book
imagines, as earnestly as possible,
with furious desire
what it’s like to be one of the titans
of the page and ink
wanting to feel that superiority
that comes with powers irregular
whether it be flying, dominance of fire,
a skeleton covered in unbreakable metal
and his claws, his deep-seated anger
the pain of perceived immortality.
sometimes, you’d get deep enough
into daydreaming in tights and battles,
you might even begin to ponder
the limitations those powers place
around the person they possess.
speaking of anger, the savagery of
uncontrolled rage, the hepatic uncorked,
I always rather liked the brutal transformation
rage inflicted upon Bruce Banner.
zeal crept into my eyes and knuckles
when I considered The Hulk’s destructive prowess
as a pressure-release of my own rage
how fun would it be, to smash uninhibitedly
across the landscape, to lay waste
comminution of concrete in my palms
made me grin, steel’s nerves would tremble
at my beastly roar and moan;
to truly come unhinged. I loved the thought of it.
but then, just the other day,
I got to thinkin’
can Banner have sex?
I mean, logically it stands to reason,
the pulse-quickening, the system-heightening
of arousal could possibly mimic
the spikes of rage ignition:
Gamma radiation coursing excitement,
turning green near climax an indictment,
no longer just an engorged member
of The Avengers,
a sensual involuntary manslaughter to remember
think of the heartbreak, the utter disconnect
this limitation forces on him
and I could see my folly, for my
need of connection, even
as the top-order intellect of Banner
could reason to abstain, I would fuck it up
in that scene in Calcutta,
in the crosshairs of intrigue and fear
connecting with The Black Widow
a cinematic passion I’ve never really known
and never could, as “the other guy”
would devour it with rage that abolishes memory.
the act would consummate my most
depraved selfishness and epicurean recklessness:
I would deprive the world
of Full Frontal Johansson.