I'm just writing this poem because my internet connection is slow
and I'm waiting for my porn to download. Pornography and poetry
have always been aggressive, have always collided inside me. The whispery
fruit of orgasm, the wonder of languages, I sought the greenery
inside the Boscov's, none of us were sure where the restaurant was, just
that there was one (it was upstairs). When my red-haired friend came to visit
from Connecticut, my parents took him there. The restaurant above Boscov's.
I suppose I was there, too, though I don't remember. I met him again at college,
the red-hair, his name is Christopher (he doesn't go by Chris), we'd been together
at German camp, he fully through puberty and deep-voiced, bearded, me a young
late-bloomer. I was intimidated by men then. Now I watch them fuck onscreen.
I'm still intimidated, but I like better to get my hands dirty. A rough stand of palm
trees Florida by me, the verb all flocking and verve. I fuck the scenery. Fuck back
with words, the trials gardens of rot and hot cumsmell