Poetry Archives Bio
March 25, 2007
10:42 PM
poem written on a train and at a station on a cellular phone

they say it
but they never know it
of what entrapment
dreams the poet

a little leg
a little breast
don't make me go
i'll be the best

envelop my plutonic member
in tender timbre of your embrace
engorge myopic semiotics
i'll postulate all o'er your face

then interpenetrate completely
with your pink clamshell my hammered sickle
and ride into a bright red sunset
on my forlorn but salty pickle

then feed me words and rhyme and reason
for me to soften and to harden
and reconcile your gilded prison
with righteous sermons from your wardens

they know it
but they never say it
they do it
but they never show it

they say it
but they never know it
of what entrapment dreams
the poet