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Lord help me
to stop being so creepy.

is it the porn, God? i’ve tried,
i really have. well, you’ve watched me,
you’ve seen!
now i skip Kelly Madison’s hubby’s tomfoolery for something less mean –
not that Japanese aphrodisiac massage isn’t plenty obscene.

it’s easy to say it’s hard to be me
cause no one else i know has lived the life i lead
except the successful ones on the front covers of magazines
who overcame their bullshit before they were twenty –
harder still to be the me i want to be,
when what i’ve been through is a terrible tragedy.
sounds like more whining & complaining to me!

i hear your pleas.
but i just can’t hold it inside, this source of pride
to torture myself as i drive by.
Burt Bacharach knew that could make a grown man cry,
when all i want to do is stop & say “hi”.
is that so hard?
it’s not like i’m quoting the Bard. this is basic communication
but it can quickly turn to infatuation.
i have problems, OK? i never said i wasn’t weak:
just sometimes lacking the ability to speak
or mind my own business, like when i’m out on the street
and i see a pretty girl who i’d like to meet
with nice curly hair and a touch of green because it’s so close to Halloween
and i turn to my wife in the passenger seat
and suggest what she’s wearing to turn it up in the sheets
like those fishnets would make a fine trick-or-treat
but a smack in the mouth is all it gets me.
“that girl’s probably only fifteen!”
it’s the hormones in the milk, surely!

so i watch porn & smoke weed
and feel sorry for myself, for being the only one like me
lacking a legacy in his family
that won’t be emblazoned on a PSA.

//jf 10.16.2021

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