cinaed

APHRODITE'S IDENTITY CRISIS

Love is Greek to me now.
On earth there are only personals,
couples banking on the internet
sans pheromones or fishnets.
High heels click a mouse-click away.
The fastest zip drive beats
fine lingerie. Control, Alt, Delete,
and you Escape without apology.
Dot Com is the girl du jour
just a button away.
Would that I understood how the hard
drive crashed.

Call me old-fashioned.
I was born from foam.
Can't comprehend this system
of starless dating,
a crowded earth of carping hearts
encased in complex housing--
What font is this?
What shortcut but to oneness?
Fingers tapping ether.
The body mooned
to a moistureless keyboard,
passwords long forgotten.

From Olympus, Eros and I
watch every season on our loveseat.
As the world turns,
yearning forms a great gas cloud.
The young and the restless suffer
from sorrows deeper than the Styx.
Desire is but an ember
the lucky remember prior
to the digital fix, when hearts hung
in great bunches
commanded by Morpheus.
Then there was dancing,
aphrodisia, and real arrows
opened the soft, micro-
fibers of each beast's breast.

DOS, Basic, Java,
what languages are these? What romance
breeds between usernames
but bitter wanderlust?
What fax machine
delivers an inkless kiss?
What disk knows the drive?
Hackers fumbling through infinity,
pirating libidos,
to download virginity.
Has paradise come to this:
Two screens on a secluded beach
sending static each to each?