No One Will Interact With Me

so I have to hunt them down on
the street and start some shit just
to have a little human connection.
Possibly, that is; it’s a theory. I have
seen myself, in retrospect, do worse.
It’s cutting the duration of that obfuscate
failure-to-correctly-surmise, as and until
it becomes retrospect, there’s the rub.
Periods of stupidity, defined as I am
not aware of what I do and/or why, of
diminishing duration then are lauded
as insight, or rather, coming to
a sudden sensibility of any sort at all,
seems wonderfully perceptive, with its
lightning flash of full-mind understanding;
no slow dawning, this, no, just dumb straight
through till the truth finally rattles all the way down,
and into the cup, with its little knock, and I get it,
full as much and as did Newton or Archimedes,
but all I’ve done is: stop, temporarily, being stupid.
It must seem odd to polish one’s shingle
by giving the lie to one’s own alleged intelligence.
But I’m not polishing my shingle, just cleaning
the worst of the gunk away to peer through.
And this way, it’s better this way, now it’s out there,
I won’t ever be unmasked as a fraud.
I’m ratting myself out, before that happens.
I’m demonstrating also that I thought of this,
of all people, first, that while it’s true that
I’ve been stupid and I’ve just woken up to it,
at least I did wake up to it; I didn’t need
someone like me to come along to shake me
awake. At least I was that smart. I mean,
least stupid, I mean, like, the awakened one.
Plus, and including, also, as well, the fact that:
honesty’s a virtue, too; especially the self-
abnegating kind, you know, like mine.