procreation, as jesus would have wanted it explained

James Bowden

“Your mother has a hole…” – he took the thumb and forefinger of his right hand and made a circle – “and your father has a dong…” – he took his left forefinger and ran it back and forth through the hole. “Then your father’s dong shoots juice and sometimes your mother has a baby and sometimes she doesn’t.”
“God makes babies,” I said.
“Like shit,”
–Ham on Rye, Charles Bukowski

–

I mean, picture this: your mother has a hole, and your father a dong.
And this no ordinary dong, but one that shoots juice.
Juice?, yes juice–a drop containing the world, containing you
            (and many not-yous)
so full of potential counterfactuals that you can hardly
blame your father when he doesn’t quite like you, or wishes
that girl with the pretty handwriting had been his son

But: it’s only sometimes that your mother has a baby.
            (so multiply however many million not-yous
            there were in that one juice shot by
            however many times your father has yelled at you)
and the other times, juice just a beach littered with pulp

–

an 8th grader, a girl, a shoddy violinist, sat next to me in orchestra
and braided my hair. she once told me that juice
had as many calories as a Big Mac.
Don’t take my word for it though, try it yourself!
            (then the teacher,)
I hope you play the cello as well as you play the ladies;
            (my father had promised her Yo-Yo Ma)

So why bother making juice, you might ask, given most
of the time you get neither Yo-Yo nor my cousin Nathan
            (though sometimes, you can mold
            your perfect self anew)
            (though obedient is the 7th point
            of the Scout Law)
Well, it turns out that making juice is quite pleasurable
            (I mean, really quite pleasant)
            (and disease only sometimes, and you can write
            a banger like Sex on Fire in that case)
            (Seriously. I’m talking

                        You must change your life

            pleasant here. Like showering and
            making an effort to smile pleasant.)
so pleasurable, that often we bag it up
            (and before we had bags,
            sheep intestine sufficed)
            (yes, you heard me right.
            the digestive tract. of a sheep.)
and sell it.
            (Sorry, that was such a Smithian slip,
            you must think he my father too, but no,
            for the first capitalist, his juice appears to have been in quite low demand)
            (And thank god for it too, his dying words
            that he wished he’d achieved more)
I meant, to throw the bag away and avoid being
overwhelmed with belligerent little shits
            (who won’t take your thundering
            I am your JUICE-PRODUCER
            as an answer)

No, I can’t quite imagine what sick being dreamt
this up either. Probably the selfsame
that conceived of Big Milk. Got juice?