When I wrote this poem, “incest,” in my early twenties. I did not know there was a real battle of the sexes. I thought there were just stupid males. All I had to do “for” the women was to show them that I was not stupid and they would be kind to me and we can all live communally ever after, my wife and her admiring friends. The entire point of this poem was to “show off” my talents for a “greater good” beyond the gratification of my ego. This poem means to step into the life of another person—in the same manner that an actor loses his or her ego-self to embrace another consciousness.

Well, now in my late thirties, I know that there is a battle of the sexes—and I have been mortally wounded three times, my poor children marking each skirmish. And this poem stands as burnt wreckage along the road blocked by coalition forces. Here’s a preliminary report from the battle front: the women that I am attracted to and over which I “fall” in “love” live in a world populated almost exclusively by two types of people: predators and dependants. These women, therefore, are optimized to deal with predators and dependants. I don’t consider myself a predator or a dependant—and this is a recipe for conflict, the battle of the sexes.

When you, woman, righteously tell a lie to escape a rapist you might learn that words and honesty have no meaning or relevance in the “real” world full of “actors” who work for the money and are pathetically self-centered.

When this poet finds that his words have no meaning, he is not far from being mortally wounded. Nevertheless, he persists and here is the poem—and others to come. This poem is part of my latest chapbook, the adolescence of the cool, available at CaféPress.com.