Oh I Understand Perfectly

I wouldn’t really call it a misunderstanding.

Though it was very late,

there was build up dislikes

And consciousnesses were altered.

I wouldn’t really call it a misunderstanding.

She made a judgment but I thought it was a misunderstanding for so long. However, if

She wasn’t trying to hear other parts of the story, then those parts don’t exist.

Unspoken personal perceptions are not hidden parts that would exonerate me if found.

As time marches,

I’m not sure if the resolve to expel me from her life deepens

Or my spot in her periphery turns the shade of forgotten.

I tell myself to forget her because she had done so. But I don’t want to

just follow suit: hating because someone hates you.

Though it works and

eventually you won’t tell the difference between self-brewed hatred

and the mimicked version,

I want, to the greatest degree, have my own thoughts.



I dint know we reeked when we rejoined the room. We sat there and they didn’t say a thing.

An amorphous murky mass with misshapen arms reach from our bodies.

I swear I didn’t know.

The murky mass reaches out for an olfactory assault.

I doesn’t become less potent in this living room, just more apparent and annoying.

Oooohh, and they said nothing—perhaps out of respect. Or they thought we knew we smelled and their comments would be empty whispers to a turn-back of inconsideration.

Well when a playful comment about our smell surface out of a friend, I was shocked, saddened.

I thought of someone comparing excessively sexy dressing in

the workplace to having a distracting perfume. Reasoning that if

you wouldn’t wear a scent that bothered other out of respect;

then likewise, you wouldn’t so deeply enthrall and distract

someone with your appearance out of respect.

Initially, I thought of my Women’s studies and how I would argue against such a statement. With the state I was in, finally the counter argument to my thought forms from the fertile loam.

The other side is not innately wrong and misguided opposition,

but a side trying so hard to explain to the other their beliefs and wants in a respectful way. Even using relatable similes to enforce their arguments

Both sides feeling they are right.


When talking about sex or race and its on BLACK, I’m in a waiting.

for some obscene comment.

I shouldn’t be in waiting—not feel tense

Like waiting for a shot I won’t actually feel uncomfortable with but I feel like

I should wince because people watching expect it.

I don’t want to be disturbed by malicious words but I question if we just be brainwashed to accept the mistreatment. I’m tired of feeling like I’m making someone speak P.C.

Though I know it’s their way of showing respect, I’d rather not be the person you have to explain “I didn’t mean it that way”.

So don’t stumble thru words and try to apologize cause I’m not offended.

I’m more tired of white faces looking to see what I’ll do

too tired to perform.

Dropped Reason

She said she’s always bored during sex.

Every massage I’ve given her

every moan to crawl from her mouth

every flexion of her back

that is in my memory’s reach got examined and reorganized with

this new information.

I hold the memory in my hand. I thought I knew its shape and weight,

but with this insight I watch it warp—is sits uncomfortably now.

When you tell me to go as hard and as fast as I could,

2 scrolls of ideas dropped and unraveled in my consciousness.

Scroll 1:                                                                                            Scroll 2:

You were enjoying yourself and                                                      Insecurity corkscrews thru my body and I

you liked what I was doing.                                                            think you’re beggin me on cause u don’t

                                                                                                        like this and you want me to finish quickly.

I’ve thought I was so insecure and irrational

for the latter scroll, but now I can know

ur boredom could make it  possible.

Actually, I’ve put so much work into learning more about women. Studying medical illustrations of vulvas then letting my hand spell out the scientific name of each part as I try pleasing via caress. Attempting to learn more about women was fueled by my desire to please and be loved back.

If I can learn from this sex book and put my attention on you and show concern for your feeling/who you are, I’ll be different from other guys who just have sex without care for their partners. I’d be better.

But I’ve put pressure on myself to perform which I’ve associated with my identity as a caring person.

Sex has become a circus I’m losing at trying to perform. Show off tricks here and there from my books or from an article, but is no longer even about me.

It’s nearly all for my partner.

So I’m energetically charged from engulfing my thoughts in

literature for sex, advice videos, and all the diagrams I can carry on my back.

The charging and the personal association with my personality mix to a heap of criticism for myself.

I can’t possibly be good enough.


Aging and trying to become successful and worthy of being a person

but the primal urges among my peers is visible radiation to me now.

I see my friends looking grown up with their

organization’s Insignia on the right breast.

I do the same time to time

I see two acquaintances dressed for the part during a free lunch and speaker event. I sat next to all acquaintances and strangers.

While I gobble soup, I watched those two do a social dance.

They stood there giggling and looking joyfully at one another.

I reconstruct the scene with only them. Their bodies are transplanted from the room to a boundryless place.

As their bodies float in forever, flesh and marrow and veins and all become transparent. A misshapen oval of light calmly rests inside of each. That internal light has a purpose and preference. The light is the child of the divine.

The light dims and I see a horizontal chain encrusted with shards of destiny. The chain is the understood duty of propagation for a species. The connected misshapen ovals innately understand life’s own love for itself and each would gladly contribute.


Their bodies are in that room, as I’m surrounded by strangers while I sibble soup.

Productivity’s End

I don’t know.
And I’m a person that likes explaining and figuring out stuff or that’s the role I tell myself I embody

Networking, working out, meditation, trying to find someone to have a decent conversation with, writing poetry.

Decisions are overrated. I don’t want to deal with emotional wellbeing and predicting outcomes in distant futures, which are both frantically held together with self-delusion as the adhesive.

Return me to a consciousness where I just DO.

Let me be

The content pile of ashes you two-handily scoop into.
With a wide mouth, exhale thru me and let me fly.
Fill the spectral world for a brief instant and slowly
diffuse outward—letting small specks of me
carelessly float alongside other aimless particles.

As a sum of particles we create a new meaning. Maybe the innate pressure to fulfill the meaning won’t be so daunting in this form.