I post my profile so you can tell
me how worthy I am, precious stone
displayed brightly against a white web wall.
You say I’m beautiful, stunning in fact,
so perfect you couldn’t have painted me
better yourself, and so I play into your game,
wanting to know what’s in your heart
before I even know your name.

I search your words for meaning, ask
what lies deep in between
the promise to make me cum,
the promise to make me your queen.
You toss around words like ardent and impudent
and I picture you late at night,
one hand holding a burning cigarette, the other
a copy of Webster’s dictionary,
impressing vocabulary in the palm of your naked hand
and I wonder who you really are:
a man who takes things seriously
or one who just takes them too far.

Character may be easier to determine
from behind a computer screen than the end
of some slut-stained bar, haze of smoke and liquor
suggesting something fleeting.
I suppose the purpose of this charade
is to find the perfect mate, pick and choose
their attributes like fresh fruit or the color of new shoes,
but nothing ever matches, no rhythm to my blues,
just clicks that bruise everything but the ego
cowering deep inside, concealing everything so meticulously
yet acting as though there is nothing to hide.

08/05/2005

Posted on 08/05/2005
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