Hedonistic Missionaries

Someday, when I have too much money,
I will pay someone to print
a remedial Kama Sutra
on several reams of
eight-and-a-half-by-eleven sheets.

I will collect from my friends,
now that they've happily entwined with
real, live, sweaty, enthusiastic lovers,
the stashes of pornography which
they haven't thumbed through in years
but haven't bothered to recycle.

I will buy a two-foot by two-foot by two-foot carton
of individually wrapped latex condoms.

I will acquire unbreakable containers
and fill them with booze,
of low, high and best quality.

I will roll a kilo of joints and
bag them by pairs, with a lighter in each bag.

I will hire a pilot
and on nights with no moon
I will fan whole loads of illicit materials
out the back of the plane and down onto
the tabletop prairies of Kansas and Nebraska;
of Oklahoma and the Dakotas;
and everywhere young men and women
get sent off into adulthood
with a bible as a guidebook.
Sent off armed only with hearsay ans rumors
from their near age-mates.
Sent off with no map, no helpful cabbie,
nor even a night at a table chatting
with someone who has visited
and lived to return home to tell the tale.

I will send out hedonistic missionaries
in converted cargo vans
full of inventive chefs and bemused musicians
and hotties of every variety
to deliver to the bewildered adults
who stumbled from self-conscious ignorance
to embarrassing error
to frightened uptightness
the good news and the bad news:
"Here's more fun than you can handle,
and a crew of native guides to blaze a safe-ish trail;
(ask us what you wish, and we'll tutor you;
but the best teachers answer questions
with questions.)

"We don't hide. We won't hide.
Our trails lead past your pinchfaced neighbors
and we all have our distinctive anatomies.

"What joy you reach for and how well you withstand it
we leave as an exercise for the student."