In my sweetest dream
you are tattooing
my trussed white ass
like flour-dusted pizza dough
on a heart-shaped
cutting board

while your twin sister
stands under
the birthday pinata pony
lactating milk duds
red hots and candy corn--

the pony
lactating, that is,
not your sister--

and you go:

"Aren't you forgetting something mister?"

as you push
the dingleberry bolus button
at the base of my balls
like a toaster lever

and my prodigious pecker
pops right up,
so that Sis is able
to toss a lime green
hula hoop

like a horseshoe bullseye
smack dab
on the pulsating purple head,

while clapping out
the funky rhythm
for the first verse of
"Mickey"
the cheerleader song.

I've told you
already
about the eye patch
and permanent palm prints
on my pasty forehead

that came
from playing patty cake
and rock-paper-scissors
with a paranoid schizophrenic
Three Stooges fan
in Washington Park;

I let you know
about our previous life together
as Appalachian flower children
riding astral planes made from my
magic carpet tongue sparks
flogging your flint rock nipples.

I've given you
the password
to my heart
in all its anagramatical
permutations;

but you seem to insist
that this
is nothing but a start,
so herewith, at last
comes the story
of my first
puppy--

an Airedale named Chipper
who could jump

five feet
into the air
just to kiss my cheek

and then spin and spin

like Brian Boitano
all the way back down
to the ground.