Everyone, they say, has a story.
         The weird guest at the party.
         The neighbor who lives alone
         and never leaves the house.
         The old baritone who sings
         opera on the street.

In Tarantino’s L.A. of hit men
         and fixers, I’m the one
         you want some dirt on.
         Was I beaten as a child?
         Did I run away from home?
         Does my crotch stink
         from the bondage suit?

My story begins the second
         you see me yanked
         out of the box.
          “Bring out the Gimp”
         is just another way
         of saying “It’s a boy!”
         The leather leash is
         my umbilical cord.

But if you hang me upside
         down and slap
         my bottom,
         I won’t cry
         like a newborn.
         I’ll giggle
         like a half-wit.

Think of me as an abscess
         on a squeal-like-
         a-pig Georgia
         mountain man’s
         sweaty face.
         I make what’s
         ugly uglier.