On the hairs of my index finger, I blur
Closely to examine these cattails, cattails
In a shallow swampshore – feel the beads
Of perspiration emerge on my forehead,
Pray for a shower or an outside enema –
Anything that rubs these rhines from my skin.

This pungence has no central orifice, it surrounds
And overwhelms, it depresses in the same way
The gale from a tropical storm invigorates
It creates the need for its own extinction,
Leaves those forced to function in its presence
A question without courage that cannot be thought,
A question squashed in plumes of baby powder.

Methane is a greenhouse gas but the greenhouse
Misnomer misses the loss in extirpation
In the same way that repetitive bathroom humor
Inhibits and denies a different kind of laughter.
I am bored with truth, transcendence, and rapture,
With the same routine hygiene and linear progression.

No, let me trip and fall
Into a defacated wetland
Or be sprayed with a yellow-brown muck
While I finish changing
The diaper on my daughter.

Bosch! That’s too good. Though I’m only 19 and by no means a father, I know that person, those thoughts, those impressions. More!