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so here I am fist-diddling in the
poot-shanty when my grandmother

appears at the door—surprise!
surprise! she frowned (this is my

grandmother poem) and my sex education
was off to the races: well, there

were other problems, too: for example,
I found through exercise of my 11- or

12-year-old sexual rights that my
glans penis wasn’t free of the skin

which kept tearing a little from time
to time and getting sore: sex was

in those days a secret, something
that never happened: I lived with my

sore penis right through Sunday school
with no one to tell about it to:

but it came loose all by itself and
through use gave me in time one nice

looking thing, if I must say so myself:
really nice: I mean, perfect: not

quite as big as wished but nevertheless
a considerable consideration: I

wouldn’t take anything for it and
wouldn’t have then, either, grandma

or not: it worked out fine: this
is probably the beginning of my

confessional phase: you see, I am
just as lowdown good for nothing as

you are, maybe lower: I’m so lowdown
you’ll feel great thinking you’ve

edged me out: go ahead: one
thing you don’t get in the movies,

porn flicks, girlies is the smell:
yep: smell-free sex: in fact, you

get no sex at all, just head fucking:
I do not complain: you’d be surprised

how little something can be and be
better than nothing: and there are

notions sometimes as persuasive as
the flesh (and less smelly): but it

is degrading to think of sex as the
flesh because in true love it is the

spirit that connects, and the feelings
are divine, tending toward the sacred

and they generate children, sweet
little innocents in a sense: