wake up, rod

This poem was written for the multi-part poem about doubt assignment.  Video of the Poet jerking off I. The moaning is misleading and The Cure is playing  too loudly    for my fumbling hands to concentrate on cumming.  II. The rubber bands  around my wrist ━ The sweat-slicked ass naked through sheer, wet powder blue briefs ━ The outline, the lifeline,  the throb insistent as a never-broken-heart ━     are all well and good     but for the skinny, nearly     naked boy stroking at the camera.  III. The big revealing torrent!     Milked straight      from the source! Arrives in dribbles, sighing spurts, disappointing liquid shudder. IV. 'Perhaps,' I tell myself, 'this is someone's idea of a good time'    while wiping away the falling action. 

The Dunning-Kruger Effect on Spinach i. I was going to make Spanikopita tonight. I’d just fuck it up. ii. I’ve made it before. Many times. The eggs, cheese, dill – My hands know the brush- iii. strokes required to cover each phyllo sheet and not leave spare butter. iv. But I wanted to impress you with my skills in the kitchen. I came v. to the conclusion that I have none. No one has told me my greek is vi. exemplary with- out my prompting. Popeye was like me, desperate for vii. compliments, trying to beef up for Olive Oyl. But he’d eat his can viii. of spinach, then no one could ignore his prowess. Grotesque with power, ix. like G-d, or what I imagine G-d to be like. Rabbi Akiva x. Called out to G-d in debates, to prove his rightness. I can call my mom, xi. but that’s a kind of shame that borders religious. Competence never xii. grasps its confidence. I mush eggs, cheese, dill, into the layers, bury it where not even G-d can find it.

RUB RUB Write a multi-part poem about doubt. That's all I'm going to say. Except I love each of you singularly and I miss [plug]. Fuck.