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.