mmmdccviii

This One

This one
I pulled
out of
the trash.

This one
I pulled
out of
my ass.

Mom
tells me
I wasn’t
raised

to be
vulgar.
That I
was a

child
of the
church.
And it’s

true; it’s
all too
true.
But

yet,
this
one’s
for

leathery
pleasure.
This one’s
for to

feather
a few
hedonistic
navels

while soft-
swiftly
twisting
one or two

quite
unrelated
nipples.
Oh, don’t

be dour,
Mom.
This
one’s

for
tasting
the warm
heart in the

back of
your
teenage
throat.

This one’s
for spooning
and kisses
that make

you feel
like you
might
float

right up
to the
textured
white

swaths
on the
ceiling
of some

scrappy
man’s bed

room, of
whom, to

me at least,
you never
once men
tioned.

This one’s
for the
uncle’s
lingerie-

filled
basement.
Oh, hush,
I just made

that one up.
It’s called
fantasy, not
vulgarity.

And since
these things
get passed on
hereditarily

(in fact,
thanks
surely
to such

lascivious
brain mean
derings, and
finding the

means to
put some
action to
such sal

acious day
dreams, I,
myself, was
concocted, I

bet, and soon
thereafter
duly arrived),
what, pray

tell, is all
the fuss?
We come
from the

very same
custard, my
dear, and
that cannot

be denied.
She sighed
a mother’s
sigh, but

even I
could
tell
that

it was
mostly
one
of

sheer
relief.
“Good
night,

dear
Mom,
talk to
you soon.

I love you,
hugs & kisses.”
“Love you,
too, hon.”

And then
our sweet
and spark-
filled,

conversation
was, for the
moment
at least,

paused,
(that is,
until to
morrow

or the
next day
or the next,
at any rate,

thinks the
well-intent
ioned trouble
maker as he

slips into
an inspiring
night of
slumber).