The City of Virginal Sin

i call this the city of virginal sin,
where everyone's entered nothing within.
though teenagers screw through tissues of skin,
both they and their players have nothing between
but layers of tissue;
the virginal sin.

they call it a pleasure,
a tickle, full tummy,
without second thought, without means no money.
the earth and the sky, no horizon or depth,
a feeling as true as the people here say:
"the retarded are absurd.
to love is to fuck."

a surface as smooth as the streets of her city. 
acne removed with plaster on troll.
people with toupees and falsies on cycles,
a people whose smiles in Brooklyn are grins,
i call this the city of virginal sin.

as oceans are lighter then darker her depth,
Miami Beach is pastel and sullen,
standard now in this land of ponds and creeks,
a city as bland as the Salt Flats themselves.

what else to say about a rash of white shoes?
what makes me want to spit on her streets?
what makes me think of raping her child?
why did i come here?
this is not my fatherland.

something once precious has now become "in".
we children do not know what we are up against,
we must take off our condoms and love.
a political curse and then,
we must let love be free again.
God may have damned this  paradise,
this city of virginal sin.

from Scrapbook
Miami Beach
January 30, 1973