A poem about how I don’t believe you.

i am glowering at some clothed chick’s
skin-tight pant
because it is there
and because i am a man,
conceiving a conversation in my head
about Kubrick & cannabis and sex positions
that the two of us will never have.
my father was right:
i’m just like my mother –
a broken fucking record;
still choking up at the sight
of metronomic hips in dark blue jeans
when they pass;


long hair tightly pulled in a farm girl’s braid
with a ribbon
for a rubber keeping it all together,

but it’s habit.
leftovers.
i’m more attracted now than i ever have been
to my own thoughts
and dreams
it seems
and by and large
the thrill is gone
because i know now that nothing.
any time you want to talk to me
it’s always under the guise of you wanting something
other than me,
so if you’re going to say anything at all,
just say no and
please leave me alone
because you shouldn’t start what you can’t stop.