Down on Valencia Street, in the back
room of Good Vibrations, the sales person

showed us a snap-on, double-dong in black.
“I sell a cum-load of these a month.” “One,

please,” you said. I’ve crawled on bloody knuckles
through Love’s little land a way — far enough

to know that you’re my spirit guide, Virgil’s
map of hell. “Harder,” you said. “My muff’s tough,

shit’s tits.” Love, never let me grow so old
that I think I’m righteous, one who bewails

sin, who fears sex. With faith and lube the first
black half-foot slides into you. I’ve been trolled

by sick zealots before; their heaven pales
to hell, as if love could ever be cursed.