I Wish I Could Be Peter Falk

Paul Zits

• Publisher: University of Calgary Press
• Year: 2022
• ISBN:
  9781773852416
• Topic: Letteratura
• Subtopic: Poesia canadese

He has outlived his usefulness. He is stressed, over-produced, and in crisis. He is searching for a role in modern society. So he is turning to Benedict Cumberbatch, green nylon bombers, and Rambo: First Blood Part II. He is turning to GQ, graphic knits, and Idris Elba. He is practicing his faces, his trances, his channeling, and his shopping. He is looking for something to impress, for a statement, for the suit with a reservoir of potential. He is dressing to out-alpha them all, and he is falling short.

I Wish I Could be Peter Falk interrogates restrictive masculinity, pulling away at our held beliefs to expose their fragile but persistent constructions. These poems challenge the standards of the masculine convention, and the various media that help sculpt our expectations, tirelessly telling men how to feel, how to think, how to dress, what to drive, and how to identify.

These poems speak with candid intimacy, delivering a perceptive critique with sensitivity and humour. Unafraid of taboos, they display the power of tradition and conformity, the damage of ignoring mental health, and the ways masculinity can be twisted and weaponized. I Wish I Could Be Peter Falk is a nuanced exploration of modern masculinity and a warning of the dangers that persist when the commodification of gender goes unchecked.

A Thinking-woman’s Fetish Object

I am a thinking-woman’s fetish object

She sits close,

a giant planet

crammed up against its star.

A leg peeks out

from beneath the folds

of her dress.

She tells me about a roach

that if stung in the brain

by a wasp,

will follow it into a hole

where the wasp lays its eggs.

The roach is sealed inside

and left to be food

for its larva.

“You don’t say,”

I respond

with just the right amount

of frisson,

but with my eyes at half-mast.

I am manufacturing a ceaseless

ta-da.

The camera

has to remain reverent.

I am a thinking-woman’s fetish object,

I think.

First I’ll make her forget

the days of the week.

Next, she’ll forget about life

on Earth.

Miserable while laughing

We had Christmas and wrapped presents.

We had birthdays and made cakes.

We would have whole days

just dedicated to fighting.

Today the leaves crunch underfoot

like we are stepping on old

sea lion bones.

We are on our way to a mall

where we think a lemon-tree orchard

should be,

for its Instagrammability.

She wants a restaurant

that doubles

as a marine research lab.

We had argued

earlier in the walk

to a pulse-pounding musical score:

“If you’re wearing high-end sweats

the kicks should match,”

she had said.

Her words are like smudge marks

left by museumgoers

pressing their foreheads

against the glass.

Black-and-white psychodrama

You and me,

we share some architecture,

sure,

some hardware,

but we are dramatically

different beasts.

I am muscled

like a Viking wagyu steer.

My elderly neighbours like me

because my strong hands

can open jam jars.

I am the Idris Elba

of the boy-next-door.

But I am impatient

for bloodshed.

I smell of machine...