Bitch is a female dog Beech is a tree, the genus Fagus And we fag away, the long night, Not under covers, as movies portray, In a well lit room, making A racket loud enough for arousal, And soft enough not to wake up the neighbors. And love, is how wet we are, At
In that balloon blown by biological filler You find the primordial base Of form, proliferating in time, To metamorphose, through a fine line, Demarcating an endo-parasite, That when exonerated, turns to a free-loader In quotidian habit, though in essence, Is a symbiont by nature.
I remember watching a movie in the 1990s which centered on a man being pregnant. Yes, an impossibility, except in the case of sea horses, which too are only able to fertilize the eggs, and carry the little sea horses to term. Still, what if by some strange twist of fate, men could get pregnant.
Autumn closing in The waves turning colder The sea breeze running downwind While the sky turns to a paler blue. The sturgeon is hunted all around the Caspian Sea For its pricey caviar, while The Papa sea horse will collect Roe from his lover, inject half The chromosomes through the membrane And rear the fertilized
Have you seen how eggs Are arranged in a fridge? It’s always in two lines when the one closest Is sucked in by your fimbriae like fingers And dropped on the frying pan. And as the egg breaks You see the white spreading Like an amniotic ocean And the golden yolk, Afloat on top like
Everyone one of my friends has kids. Some 2 and others 3. Its almost always more than 1. Like everyone wants A company or crowd But never a monocyclist Or a string quartet. And my wife and I, we plan To bring one rug rat to the world. Who will run circles around us, And
They say marine creatures, like mollusks Write their own scripts with ink, venom and milk. Biological concoctions of peptides and indigo dyes. And here life is all about the beautiful prey and her capture. And we humans call the prey, a mystical gender, A euphemism, “woman”, radiant and strongly nuclear We make another euphemism “love”
We don’t converse as we did before. Perhaps the cycles in our vocal chords Have run their lengthy revolutions. Maybe we Bite our teeth more, clench them every time We can’t seem to find a new topic. Maybe we were those oranges, peeled And squeezed, until all the juice was poured. , So what do
In the final chapter Of her gestational saga That begin with a glass of wine A creature burrowed through lovers lane Swam through tides of the amnion To make a little excursion To life And in these vicissitudes Of emotional collapse And abstruse forbearance Her heart learned to love beyond Any residue of fallback hate