Late by Father Luke

The day curls up at
my feet and looks
back at me before
Closing its eyes.

Soon it’s asleep.

Goose Bumps by Father Luke

He feels the goose flesh rising on his arms.
And, in the light thrown from the lamp on the desk,
he watches the hairs. Each poked into individual bumps
becoming erect, and casting shadows on his arm.

What was that, she asks.

Don’t know.

He turns to look at her entering the room.

Did you see that?

I saw you shiver, if that’s what you mean, she says.
She lays her hands on his shoulders, and rubs.

He imagines her grasping his chin,
and turning his head, snapping his neck.

The kids in bed, he asks.

They are, she says.

She grips and un-grips the muscles in his shoulder,
and his goose flesh melts. He relaxes into her touch.

She lifts his chin to look at his face.
Let’s call it a night, she says.

He smiles, and she smiles back at him.

Not a breeze in the room, but the drapes
flutter as they leave the room, and turn out the light.

Goose Bumps by Father Luke

He feels the goose flesh rising on his arms.
And, in the light thrown from the lamp on the desk,
he watches the hairs. Each poked into individual bumps
becoming erect, and casting shadows on his arm.

What was that, she asks.

Don’t know.

He turns to look at her entering the room.

Did you see that?

I saw you shiver, if that’s what you mean, she says.
She lays her hands on his shoulders, and rubs.

He imagines her grasping his chin,
and turning his head, snapping his neck.

The kids in bed, he asks.

They are, she says.

She grips and un-grips the muscles in his shoulder,
and his goose flesh melts. He relaxes into her touch.

She lifts his chin to look at his face.
Let’s call it a night, she says.

He smiles, and she smiles back at him.

Not a breeze in the room, but the drapes
flutter as they leave the room, and turn out the light.

The Book of Jack

Art by F.N. Wright

Click on Jack–for best viewing go to fullscreen and use arrow that appears on the right to turn pages.

Jacking off on the internet by Father Luke

______________________

she and i talk on the internet from time to time
it’s worse than the next best thing

can’t hear
taste
touch
see or feel.

sigh
lol
BRB!
and all the happy horse shit of Instant Messages

all i want to do is to be able
to touch her hair

see her smile

hear her

taste her breath

i touch the screen,
then i touch myself

Untitled by Father Luke

Driving a truck means never being home. Being home means having time
to sit in my favorite chair, put my feet up, drink as many cold ones
on a hot evening as I like, pinch my wife’s ass, and watch whatever I
damn well please on television.

But I’m not home. And I’m worried. My wife is in the hospital, and I
don’t even have a cell phone. Her operation is tomorrow. Right now I
am in Atlanta and I need $1.29 for my wife’s operation… I don’t have
the money to call her.

But we’ll get by. Somehow, we’ll get by… We have to.

–Father Luke

Two Poems by Father Luke

The darkness ate my poems

When I lay down for the night
I don’t want to be bothered
with the tugs from
the words
which
slip
in

***

it will never be my turn

once again i’m facing the end of the month without
a job and without rent money.
i’m listening to music in my hotel room.
i feel a cool, coastal breeze,
and i taste the salt in the air.
i’m almost 50 years old,
and i’m beginning to
understand:
it will never be my turn.

____________________
My name is Father Luke.
I wait with the woman I love for a perfect world.

My website is here: http://FatherLuke.com