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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.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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