Dick Pics

Two dicks, sitting in

my daughter’s inbox,

like men without hats,

waiting for any door

to open. 

*

Sighting a stranger’s penis

used to be rare. Remember raincoats?

Like a flash of lightning,

like a Scratch ‘N Win ticket –

sometimes glittering knock-off watches,

sometimes a flapping penis

shivering in the electric air.

*

Overcooked hotdog?

Aborted fetus?

Close up of a thumb?

Rolled baloney on a lonely deli plate?

*

We have whole monologues

for vaginas. But I can only imagine

a penis as silent,

which isn’t the same

as listening.

*

The lighting is never

good. No one ever drapes

a dick in folds of linen

with the head looking

back, one pearl earring

shining in stilled patience.

*

In the schoolyard

a graffitied cock stands on balls

pointing to the night sky –

a fallen constellation.

*

Women are for portraits,

lounging nudes stuffed into frames,

luminous and arch. They are heads

breasts, ass, and feet (though

never speech). You must pay

and cross a velvet rope to see them.

The penis stands alone

in filthy bars and bathrooms,

in wooded parks,

in the shadowed alleys

whistling a moon-white tune.

*

Now penises are everywhere.

Like posters for a one-act play,

plastered on every telephone pole,

bench, building, on every mailbox,

on your kitchen chair,

so that you have to push through piles of them,

great snowdrifts of dick.

Just to reach across the room

and tuck a stray hair

back into your daughter’s braid.