On A Reaction to My “5 Times” Poems

Yo, dude —

What the hell is up with these low-T stories? You had a girlfriend in college, and never slept with her? I think I might know why she left you. Seriously.


You know, it ruins poetry
To have to explain it.
But —
I didn’t recount the story
To make myself look good,
Or make her look bad, or good,
Or anything.
I was trying to describe
A thing that happened.

You see,
Everything we do, as human beings,
Is dictated by either instinct (at worst)
Or emotion (at best).
It was the emotions I was
Interested in reliving: how it felt.

Our tendency, in these times,
Is to put things in some sort of
Bizarre moral context:
The “you-should-have-done-this-instead-of-that” world
You apparently live in.

When it comes to recounting events
The only thing that matters
Is truth:
Although I won’t deny that
When it comes to learning from them
A viewpoint something like yours
Comes into play.

What we learn from any relationship is always
Half about the other person
And half about ourselves.

Believe me:
Low testosterone
Was not the issue;
Negotiating the desire to be
In control of my own feelings was.

The biggest issue I see with relationships —
Mine and everyone else’s —
Is the desire to be in control of the other person.
How to carry on relationships
On equal footing is always the real task.

But I appreciate your concern for my wellbeing,
And will consider your critique of my artistic choices
As time allows

Feedback

I’ve been told I shouldn’t like my own posts.
This does sound like the right thing not to do —
Since one assumes I liked it in the first place
If I inflicted it on all of you

But that’s not strictly true. I find, rereading
I don’t agree with much of what I say;
But when I write, I let thoughts wander freely
And save critiquing for another day

To me then, what’s remarkable is not that
I’ve clicked on “like” for some stray word or mote;
But that, with fifteen hundred posts, I have not
Liked much of anything of what I wrote

But yet, I write: for it is my obsession.
I seek to justify why I am here —
But find, too often, all my words seem empty
The futile capering of
A puppeteer