In the New Age of Eroticism
That lorikeet is ovulating—you shouldn't touch her.
But what if she comes to me? Sips honey from my paper cup?
What if she desires touch, nearing without request or enticement?
Well, have you ovulated?
Obviously not, since it's impossible—biologically speaking.
You're impossible, biologically. You & your finger swing.
You & your stupid nectar. You & your unsaid expectations of experience.
What do you mean? I'm just trying to feed them.
Don't touch her is what I said—she's getting ready.
After Hiroo Onoda
I desire my face
as it was before.
of hiding is a bowl
of wilted fronds to eat
tomorrow. Who is
the enemy now? In dark
or dusk: this very coast.
I am all wet sand
or all tickertape. I
stopped hearing con-
jugation a decade ago;
the war isn’t over—
victory is only
Split it at the center
with your thumb
& spindle fear from
pulp into new denial.
It’s edible enough.
To this day I wipe
blood & mother’s milk
from my lips & eyes.
To our household in financial crisis, I've contributed in small ways—
credit debt, an unattended portfolio—but more concerning
than my desires to be a sound provider are the nuanced risks of being
your only lover, the most intense of which I made recently in shaving
my pubic hair over the commode with your ex's plugin razor.
I didn't feel any less a man for the modern convenience or context;
I don't know—maybe even more for the potential shock, but I have no
certainty about it now. Each mow upward drifted a new nest
on the water, portion of the hedge that took some time to grow. This is
the predicted inflation about which I've heard so much. I didn't pay
a bill or check the stock activity before we went to bed, but I knew,
by this small investment, that you knew—finally—I was too big to fail.