My father offers me his porn collection.

Here it is. Quite a stack, no?
No. Not a stack. A tower.
A tower of Babel! Only, y’know, with different girls
instead of different languages.
Can you believe how tall it is?

Here, from floor ninety through the penthouse,
is Penthouse. We go way back.
We met after a bar mitzvah lesson. My friend
stole an issue from his dad and hid it
beneath his hamper, matted in the shag carpet.

We unfurled it on the bed and, kneeling side
by side, brought our nostrils close enough to
flutter the paper...but careful not to
smudge it with our fingers.
We could do that now,

if you want.
I found a copy
of that issue
last year. No?
Well, maybe later.

Here, on floors sixty-seven and sixty-eight,
is Hustler. This humble duplex is, oddly enough,
my Playboy Mansion. I come when I’m single, and
it knows my girlfriends serve four year terms, and
it knows I’ll come back.

Most of the rest is Playboy. When I moved out of
your grandparents’ house, the first thing I did was
mail my subscription to Playboy. Up
went the mailbox flag, and I went with it, erecting
five thousand cubits of slime mortared brick.

Don’t worry about me. I love the tower,
but I’ve outgrown our relationship.
Yes, “relationship.” It wasn’t all about sex.
We share a common interest. In archeology,
if you must know. The archeology of women.

We’ve mapped a history of pubic hairstyles.
The less faded the pages,
the more faded the hairs,
ever lightening, dwindling, and refining,
like a neanderthal’s jawbone.

When I try to sing “Hey, Jude,” I can only remember
the word “na.” But Debbie Boorman’s sod patch? It’s in
Screw, August 1981, page four. Mary Faye's fur phoenix?
High Society, May 1977, page twenty. Guess I’ve got pubes
on the brain...on the old pink wrinkles, ahaha.

That’s why I don’t need the tower
any more. And I bet it could help you.
There are some huge names in here.
Of course, you’ll get to know all the ladies, but,
well, the issue that cost Vanessa Williams

the Miss America crown? Both Suzanne Somers’.
Torrie Wilson and Sable, from the WWF.
The bearded lady. The incredible
lobster-boy. The world’s largest
ball of rubber bands. Born

in captivity. Strong teeth. Kobe style.
Ocean view, with adjacent parking.
Reduced aspartame. May cause headaches,
arachnophobia, and mild erectile re-imagining,
now in 3-D (and 2-D, in select theaters).

Don’t be afraid. Okay, so the tower
slaughtered trillions of your siblings...
but not you! You survived it, and
now it’s at your mercy! I begat you
both, and you’ve won its birthright!

Don’t feel rushed. The tower helped me understand
you. It doesn’t mind that you’re shy. Text it, take it
for pizza, massage its spine after a long day.
You can sleep in different beds, or down the hall.
You can hide it in the guest room and tiptoe in

while I’m distracted with a ball game
and read it poetry. This is the one time I’m
fine with poetry! That’s how important this is!
I smothered soil from your changing table, and
I whet soap bars for your cursing mouth, and now

if you’ll harden your member, I’ll roll a rubber
down it. I’ll give you four decades of back issues
for one firm hand shake. Make my issues
your issues. Well?
Well. I’m not surprised.

I’m not offended. I’m not offended
by your undescended testicles. I bet
they’re still in your head, aren’t they?
They’re nestled beneath your brain,
hoping to hatch into something

taller than the tower, something calm
atop that boggling, blurry height.
Don’t worry, it won’t be long
before they fall and
land beside me,

beside your grandpa,
beside his grandpa,
beside Nimrod
and Noah
and God.