The Masculine Experience

Being male: bloops of personality are sloshed into a pail

and hauled from hill to vale without attaining much
of anything beyond a heterogeneity of hits and bungles,
rumbling through the jungles of what’s doomed to

breed the Masculine Experience, whose task and seed
and sin erupts into the blunt abrupt appearance
of the phallus-bearing blunderer: dumb and blinking
and unthinking as a punch-drunk pug: welcome to his

mug of suds and hormones that excites – and then invites
oblivion: fermented brew of terror and testosterone: welcome
to the inadvertent and involuntary blast of squiggly tails
of thousands of spermatozoa pushing small blind

lumpy heads in search of beds to kick back in and smoke
cigars, little flickers who would strive to see themselves
as stars, who rhyme with Venus but end up, if mostly
dead, on Mars. Welcome to the awkwardness of being

crucified upon the chromosomal Y, looking lunkily
around and seeing nothing but the muddy ground, missing
pretty much the whole shebang of sky. Oh my. I do
appear to be perplexed. I get like this when I have sex. 





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