Born of Diamonds

I was born of diamonds on a lazy Monday Afternoon,
wearing Ray Bans and a jean jacket and leather pantaloons,
marooned in a cocoon of placenta juice pushed
   from the loose caboose of my mother a little after two,
her abdomen tattoo stretched out of proportion
   and her nipple rings lubed for precaution,
Dad somewhere racing street bikes at auction
   while the doc filled out the forms for my adoption,
they offered me stock options,
a stuffed owl,
and a forgotten vile of assassin's toxins,
rubbed me down with a towel soaked in long barrel aged whiskey,
that delicious odor made me typsy
   and since the whole gotdamn affair was so gotdamn risky
   I didn't mind paying a little more for some dirty Sixth St kitty,
   some pretty Creole girl with tea cup titties from the inner city
   who could ride me like Sam Clemens on the Mississippi,

shifty John Cash songs coming out of the radio
   had me impatient to go,
but I had to wait an extra hour for that old Chinese nurse
   to shower my pink parts
   before I could be cleared to depart,

Mom kissed me on the head,
offered me some of her milk and a slice of bread,
said,
"dear boy,
I thought I had to shit,
went to sit,
and had a child instead."

TA