Upon My Break-in at the Sperm Bank to Retrieve a Changed Mind

I've been around long enough
to know which semen is my semen,
but you can never be too sure
in a place like this.

And I don't have much time.

So I'll fill my backpack with
every entry under "M" I can find and
make a run for it.

What was I thinking, anyway?
I already have enough kids
I don't know,
and who don't,
know me, or probably care to
after what their mothers have
told them about me.

As long as these vials don't thaw out
or burst before I can bury them,
I'll be fine.

Jesus Christ!

It's Doctor

To my wife, I'm Dan.
To my kids, Daddy.
To my mom, it's Danny Boy.
But to you, pal,
it's Dr. Bailey.

p.s. You are a bag of ballsweat.

Zing sing-a-ding ding ding

Imagine a world where Vachel Lindsay
had balls made of titanium, and he
traveled back and forth across the vast
plains of this country, smashing them
in a vise for applause and booze money.

Imagine a world where Abraham Lincoln
never died, but was instead abducted
by rabid alien forces and forcefully
evolved into an ass-kicking robot
that wore a stovepipe hat.

Imagine a world where Joan of Arc
fed her entrails to vultures atop some
pristine French hillside while
she doodled in a notebook all the things
she imagined a life could become.

Or imagine this!
A world where Bob Dylan and Ronald Reagan
slept spoon handle to handle together every
night and raised their adopted children in a
quaint little blue working class home.

Imagine. Imagine this, too.
Imagine a world where
JFK was hacked to bits by a crazy with an axe
instead of shot to death by a conspiracy
on a Fall day in Texas.