love poetry

a warm call under a warm feather duvet worn like a lover a full half hour before the alarm sounds its ghastly racket. a portable phone flexing its 900MHz across the thousands of kilometers spanning the skin of my duvet, the space of air to the base, and the grand land of the New World, the Peaceful Sea, and a POTS, copper wire, fibre optics, satellite, spread spectrum, repeaters, switching, bandwidth, international subset, substrate, irradiating the rubbery leather of the Sperm hunting the giant giant prehensile squid. where the pipe is laid, where the optics chirp their handshake, their telephony, their protocol, their laser beam words. enough to convey softness the same way it was harsh before, the way it conveys sadness and apology the same way it was hurt before. complaining about the static. complaining about the clicks of the rushing pod of porpoise and the moaning of the migrating humpback as it tries to sing us back to sweet sleep.

saw woman in a red callico dress, thin sun dress and she had long slender legs pressed into nude-leather open-toes shoes with a pressed leather heel. Her toe nails were plum. The skin of her legs was translucent and pale and smooth. The dress covered her upper thigh but the hip was smooth under the thin fabric and her smooth tummy rose to a round bosom. Her arms were slender and her nails were short and natural. Her eyebrows were strong but her hair was dark and full and fell to her shoulder in one splash. Her skin was clear and her mouth was full and she sat there in the cafe nursing a coffee shake with a guy friend and I caught her eye and she looked at me and I couldn't read my Gravity's Rainbow -- then a friend of mine came in and we went outside for a cigarette and she left past us looked back and she and he took off in a civic... but her slim pale legs winked at me once more as she drew them into the car then she shut the door and as she passed I followed her and she smiled and left into the night in the white japanese import.

You sit at your desk,
Unable to look out
At the street--
The pane reflective.

Your father, a poet,
Is published.
You are certain
We haven't heard of him.

Your soft clear face,
Brushed with hair,
Crinkles in concentration,
Searches for trees.

Rumpled in boy's sheets,
Belly pressed towards sleep,
A hair wave trundles down
Neck and shoulders.

Flannel pajamas form
You and winter scenes
Of snowmen and skaters
Tickle your pale flanks.

The machine kicks in after four
Rings, pressing pleas of
Happiness onto erasable tape.
You screen every call.

You are pressured by the phone.
The vinyl bench in the Blue Metroline
Train presses your intense desire
For freedom into my back.

I sit and write a letter,
From my suburban room, forming words
that tell why I could miss
The last Metro home.

The lust stings my thighs with
Fishing barbs -- it is impossible
Not to twist and revel in past
Sexual soups and my penis and
Head conspire against me
In their infection of delicious
Innuendoes.

The prude can excites me
With her steady repression --
The imagined red nipple
Held firm in underwire,
Nestled in starched sturdy fabric,
Runs electric.
The heart of the matter.

I see myself an obvious man
of illicit intent, my raunchy brow
Dotted sheen sweat,
an admittance
Of phallic degeneration.

Thighs interest me more than
The lips for they support,
Hug, press, sometimes undulate
Underneath while the lips
Only consume and then render
Useless pulp.