An impulse, light pressure to fingertips
and words form and de-form.
The poet, biologist of desire,
seeks to discover, to understand life
in the vacuum of the heart,
sculpts the page, asking it the age-old,
or perhaps old age question:
who are you?

Listening intently for the whisper
of an answer, appeals are made
to our Kafkaesque universe
but vanish without revelation
and so we must muster on,
driven to carve meaning
from the Rushmore of our cravings.

In raucous silence they line up
to be frisked for weapons
and cross examined for motive.

Orgasmic raptures of tongue,
Cadbury sweets and spicy Kung Pao sauce
that make us close our eyes and sigh
before pleasure flees into a comfortable
fullness, a concrete belt that pulls us down,
unaware, to drown in our desire
as if we had betrayed the local mafia boss.

Entangled limbs, groping fingers
and thrusting hips of genuine orgasms
that make us open our eyes and shout
before pleasure flees again, leaving
emptiness, a grave that begs to be filled.

Intimacy, companionship, affluence,
influence… even God is there,
waiting in line to be questioned.
We’ll make extra time for him
but the fog is already rising
to reveal what we feared most –
dark forest within dark forest
and all the trees look the same.

©2019 Kenneth W. Arthur