A DEFINITION OF HOLLOW

Tiny gifs. Rows of images of women

bent over cocks, begging to be sprayed with come,

rubbing their clits, having their asses licked

and licking back. Row after row as I press

the down arrow, the screen filling from the bottom

with silent mini-movies until I take my finger away.

Each woman repeating the same caress or pout

without fail, in a loop that has no end if power

has no end. An orgy of fetish and solitude.

I get up. From ten feet it's a pointillist painting.

I see a squirming mouse in the mouth of a cat.

I can read Stephen Hawking or press the down arrow

to conceptualize infinity. The universe is expanding,

just like porn is expanding our addiction to orgasm.

I feel trapped. It's a needle-in-a-haystack thing.

I spend hours looking for the right combination

of smile and hip, skirt and areola, for eyes

that seem happy, that help me forget

there's a director off-camera saying Faster.

I've read that watching sex has the same effect

on the brain as having sex, so I am watching

having. I am erasing myself from gravity

and touch. I am smashing the laptop I bought

just for this. Porn makes me feel dumber

than calculus ever did. I'm sorry—the calculus.

As if there are other calculuses out there.

As if I'm nothing more than an erection and a hand.

Note: This poem is reprinted from Connotation Press.