I will never forget as an altar boy
catching our parish priest masturbating after mass
as he finished off the last of Jesus's blood
or Miss Cherry, my first-grade teacher,
who would bend over my desk to help me with my math problems,
but whose huge boobs hanging like ripe fruit from the lowest limbs
had me debating that great philosophical question:
"What is the difference between apples and oranges?"
I will continue to pursue the transcendent questions
of the day in quest of the truth.
Unlike most who are permanently scarred by traumatic events,
I was robbed of my innocence at a young age
and I couldn't be more thankful.
These mesmerizing events were my genesis as an artist.
catching our parish priest masturbating after mass
as he finished off the last of Jesus's blood
or Miss Cherry, my first-grade teacher,
who would bend over my desk to help me with my math problems,
but whose huge boobs hanging like ripe fruit from the lowest limbs
had me debating that great philosophical question:
"What is the difference between apples and oranges?"
I will continue to pursue the transcendent questions
of the day in quest of the truth.
Unlike most who are permanently scarred by traumatic events,
I was robbed of my innocence at a young age
and I couldn't be more thankful.
These mesmerizing events were my genesis as an artist.
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