the "baller"
of which you speak
makes a melon of my heart
in but a single beat,

I’d be lying if at every mutter
I would nod and pretend
to know just what it means.

all I want is to comprehend,
lockstep in the line of trend.
perhaps someday with a little luck
I might just understand.

If you asked me to I’d scream
fuck Thoreau, Emerson, and me.
If the lenses were in vogue
they could help me see.

If only. . .
I’d stand clad in uniform,
bowing to the social norm.
yet this inscrutable standard
holds me back,
away my grit,
alack! alack!

at our cores
we ache
to conform;
we gravitate
towards one another
but nature doesn’t weave
its design through me.
I am a body without mass,
I have a mind
but no mind to understand.