An Original Story

The day after I was birthed, God and a bunch of sassy angels played Irish fiddles in a beery bordello, a place not yet colorized into reality. The next day, squealing in my two-day-old tight Rubenesque pinkness, I was immortalized in a Brownie Box Camera, the guys in the men's room pissed themselves with a teary laughter. On the third day of my fleshy ascension a thin women said she was going to love me for a little while only. I took the deal. So many days have fallen away now. Sex saturated, love begotten, a damaged dance of a life, but there was always wine. An old, white-beaded gent, has bequeathed me two holy relics, iconic images of Santa, and Michealangelo's painted finger, when I hold them up to the light I can almost see through them.