Thanks for the comment. Really, I meant my apology half-ironically.

I respect readers too much to imagine that they consider poetry as being on par with peer-reviewed scientific research. Also, I know that anyone reading this poem will be familiar with the anecdotal argument fallacy. How do I know? Well, this is the Information Age. And, as I understand it, people now can and do spend all available time learning about every conceivable subject in hopes of nudging forward human evolution.

Anyway, in case it’s not clear from looking at the poem and reading through the somewhat lengthy comments, I did keep the original title.

Justify/apologize/preface to hell & back…

One hand a fist in front, the other: fingers crossed behind the back… I think that might be an aspect of the “hidden vulnerabilities” Counter-Responder is alluding to, Clifton.

It’s poetry, don’t f*#king apologize.

I hope you and others can forgive my ambiguities. I greatly appreciate the opportunity to clarify my position.

Maybe I could’ve eliminated ambiguity with a more direct title: “A few experiences I’ve had with a few girls in Phoenix, Arizona.”

Or, maybe, “A rough sketch of some mostly very nice women.”

I will try to learn from your thoughtful responses, Counter-responder.

Thanks for answering me about the vulnerable hand. I’m still interested in this. Do you think you could give an example of some of these hidden vulnerabilities?

I appreciate the argumentive emotion that your piece brought out of me along with the strong desire to defend my gender against the stereotypes that promote women as needy, often immature, and unintelligent creatures simply on a mission for white picket fences. I also must thank you for your contribution of the “Pubescent grandfathers” description, and for using yourself to model for such a description.

In response to your inquiry as to the “vulnerable hand” hidden behind the “masterful illusionist boy childs back”, my intention was to reference any kind of personal vulnerability that such a character would attempt to keep hidden, for fear that he would then be exposed to unfair criticism of his true person, or not accepted as “normal” (a trait that I have found to be common amongst most men that I have encountered).

In my opinion, it is bad to do this, or at the least, unhealthy. Permitting those around you to see your vulnerability clearly is a distinction of what defines intimacy. Without intimacy or a revealing of honest thoughts and emotions, an individual may have feelings of loneliness, which can lead to levels of depression, which opens up a whole new conversation that I am not clinically competent or confident enough to participate in.

Sorry I haven’t returned lately with further hilarities.

I have to say that I feel I’m a pretty unlikely source for cosmopolitan flavor! This morning, for instance, I had sex with three animals and a handful of very close relatives.

I can’t help but think of a cosmopolitan as someone who views himself as a citizen of the universe, not just someone who is “worldly.” In the end, I strive to be both. Really, though, I often wonder if I’ll ever reach plain old “stately” or even “municipal.”

Thanks much for this!

I hoped that I wasn’t making statements that are too generalized. Really, I think my sample from personal experience is much, much too small to attempt a real generalization. And, anyway, I don’t know how trustworthy my perception of my own experiences is.

I hope I’m not cynical. I feel hopeful. I feel hopeful that I’ve learned something from the kind girls who’ve let me relate with them and I feel hopeful that they will move on to better and more fulfilling relations.

I do not think, though, that the people I describe in my poem represent all girls or even all Phoenix girls.
Well, I don’t always think that.

Here’s an unfortunate type I might add to your list: Pubescent grandfathers that masturbate probably too frequently. Yeah, they’re often alone, but, after all, this room is only big enough for one person and his GIANT FUCKING THOUGHTS. They crave sex that they’re either too cowardly or too lazy to claim. They curse at other, sexually thriving youngsters under their breath. They blame their own failures on what they perceive as the possibly non-existent shortcomings of Phoenix women. Phoenix women don’t automatically come to them for sex. These squeaky-voiced granddads wonder why. They sit at home in their underwear, growing those beards out. They write poems for on-line magazines and have names that rhyme with “Smifton Clith”….

By the way, what’s the vulnerable hand behind the masterful illusionist boy child’s back? Is that just any kind of vulnerability he’s trying to mask with loquacity? Also, is it bad to do that?

Sample Encounters with male Homo sapiens, Phoenix, Arizona (ca.2000 CE)

Boys who carry their egos in front of them, bumping into others, standing too close while breathing their intoxicant into your face
Man-boys ask “where are you from?” and “you are so beautiful, where is your boyfriend tonight?” which translated means “I refuse to be creative in my attempts to fuck you”
So young boy lays his hands on lower back, pushes his tongue into mouths, pries his way in, pressing on the back of your head as if attempting to drown you in waist deep waters; his quickness tells that he is afraid it will disappear if he does not move with aggression, weight falling once motivation is lost so that it can disappear
Caveman boy whispers thoughts through squinting eyes and pursed lips while seeing extended belly and playing catch with his son in the front yard
Claimed boy keeps bands on his finger while he breaks personal space, licking lips in speech, grinning like a predator in the wild then returning home to surer things
Little weakling baby boy masquerades in oversized vehicles with thumping bass rattling windows and plaster cast testicals swinging in time from the back bumper
Full grown “mama’s boy” man child waits for help, pouts through his failures, expresses his hurt and discord with temper tantrums, and forms fists at the ends of raised forearms intended for receiving arms, legs, and faces
Masterful illusionist boy child has endless expressions of lexeme, is a smith of words, twisting himself around you hoping that mindfulness of the vulnerable hand behind his back will be ignored if this loquacious hand in front of your face can speak charmingly enough
Baby boy sees himself in the mirror, smiling, flexing, pleasure, smirk, flex, smile, pleasure, flex, smile, pleasure, smile…

You say, “I think it’s fabulous” and, “I thought portions of this were really hilarious.”

Unfortunately, I do think your reactions say too much about you: you have very poor taste and you are not at all a good person. Furthermore, you have not a shred of decency.

Welcome to my world.

Thanks for the support and insights.

I hope I don’t come across as too unkind. Really, I would like to view myself as a feminist. I will point out, though, that the feminism I support is an outgrowth of humanism. Women, after all, are not the only victims of their oppression.

A theme to this poem, I think, is that some adult female members of Homo sapiens may be “girlified.” When she becomes girlified, she may develop certain, probably unfounded, beliefs in the inherent benevolence of maternity, femininity and sacrificial wifehood. She may become complicit in her physical and sexual objectification. She may develop a kind of MPD to try to better confront different perceptions of moral and sexual expectations. Her moral and mental vision might be darkened.

I hope I haven’t, in writing any of this, positioned myself as an adversary to the female human. Perhaps in the future I will find a way to express my generally high opinion of her better and to express my belief in the intellectual equality of the male and female human being. This, after all, is the characteristic I think is most important.

I’m sorry you did not receive the update.

Yes, we are now involved in a horror magazine here.

I loved it.