Tantric Text

The joy of text.

Lean fingers, letters on my wall,
I have a hat (a cap, that is)
with numbers and the alphabet...
I poke the air,
promise crammed, like Hamlet
did when speaking to the king.
I even text while having sex,
firm pressure felt
the give of skin, the push,
oh, finger sensuality!
Ah me, I fly a text-right kite
in breezes capricious and quick,
the tail a string of messages
in bold, italic type.

I jump up and down
on green, shag rug
and feel the thrill of text
extant, and even damp the
Hanes inseam where thoughts
abide of messaging.

I taste a modicum of Splenda;
I inhale deep that lilac scent
for sweet the keys on cell,
and nights flash grand
like fireflies
on evenings graced by
summer’s touch.

I hear the bells of Poe:
tintinnabulation oh so long
that resonates like space vibrations
from a pulsar spinning strong,
and see with eyes as wide as time
the joyous bright on rain-splashed zinc
that coats the awning facing west.

It’s like profound philosophy,
like blessings from far-eastern
gods
arousing long forgotten
glands to loose the very
seeds of life.


40 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
6-26-16