Lies, Bullshit, and Invisible Truth-Seeking

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Lies, Bullshit, and Invisible Truth-Seeking

How can we ever believe anything we tell ourselves in the pursuit of love?

There are still pockets of deep dishonesty in myself and my work.
For example
when I’m in
what looks like an
with a sexy woman,
in what I think
sounds like
civilized back and forth,
I have to battle fantasies
of how we could be spending our time:

Lying on a warm bed, sunlight
streaming in,
her flesh,
her hair

As a heterosexual male,
I spent the vast majority of my first years of
life, lusting
quietly or noisily,
but always

T.S. Elliot,
stripping away
all his
in Prufrock,
was doing the same shit
“In the room the women
come and go
speaking of Michelangelo. . .”

. . . bullshit . . .

. . . he mighta heard their words
but you can just feel
him thinking about body parts
and coming and going
in his own way.

I’d hoped by the time I
reached 74 years of age
I’d have had
a few relationships
with women,
not my mother,
not my sister,
based on something other
than this mysterious pull
towards nakedness
and orgasm and that special
kind of knowing the other
that’s only attainable
via afterglow.

That bears repeating:
that special kind of knowing

Addendum on
truth and consequences
(honesty vs. lying)

I have no idea, zero,
whether the total bullshit and charm
I used all my younger life
to get laid and feel loved,
was ever true or total lies,
but looking back
it all feels far less
worthwhile than it felt
those many times.

Sorry ladies, at least
a little bit anyway.
I’m not sure
why you should believe me
but I hope you do.

Just Weighing Separator
Photo by Urban Gyllström on Unsplash

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