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On My Stool

My stool has all the forms of clouds in the blue bowl of heaven. I can see anything I want in it.
My stool is as ominous as tea leaves. There is nothing it cannot foretell.
My stool is as various as the weather, embracing all seasons, storm and calm, flood and drought. Like the weather, it is endlessly a subject of interest, treated like family when regular, but a dangerous antagonist when it turns on me.
My stool gives me great pleasure when it leaves me easily, abundantly and with body. A good stool begins a good day. A bad stool or none at all poisons the sun.
My stool smells better than anyone else's, except when I eat something that makes me a stranger to myself.
My stool knows me better than I know myself, surprising me with the pungency of my excesses.
My stool is what my body creates without my help. I enslave brain, fingers, limbs, mouth. I decide what to put into my body. But my body decides what to make of it. My body glows with pride when I admire what it has made.
My stool has given me solitude in a noisy house and leisure to read great literature and pulp novels in the midst of mad activity.
My stool is good luck, for it leaves a horseshoe printed white on my bottom.
My stool invites contemplation, for to savor it fully, one must sit over it -restless legs soothed to leaden sleep -as patient as a brooding hen. My stool is a little world made cunningly. Creatures live in it and are nourished by it.
My stool comes from parts of my body where I have never been, will perhaps never enter. If my stool could tell what it has seen...and it does!
My stool is only mine. No one else treasures it, not even those dearest to me, nor I theirs. None except for my own body is as intimate to me as my stool. If I prefer not to touch it, that is only out of respect for my body, which has rejected it, as someday it will reject me.
My stool enriches my language, giving me
a load of crap, much good shit, the latest poop--not worth a turd-- and manure, excrement, defecation, waste and feces--all wonderful things for things to be said to be--and much much more.
My stool infiltrates language with the giggles of children, for each family has its own secret word for the act: I learned to go squeeze, but my younger brothers and sisters would go boom! (and tinkle too). But some secrets are best shared, as when a million children in hiding smirk to hear, "We're number two-- we try harder!"
My stool gives me all this-- explaining, perhaps, why we describe it not as something we give, but as something we take.
My stool teaches me how to make noises of disrespect, scat-singing as it goes. I train my mouth to imitate its noise, for what good is freedom of expression if one has no way to express one's appreciation for the world's passing scene?
My stool teaches me the vanity of fine cuisine, for look what it makes of whatever I eat, whether subtle sauces or coarse humble brown bread.
My Stool teaches me grateful acceptance of our universe when I consider that the anus could have been given tastebuds.
My stool is forgiving, a trumpet fanfare absolving me of my sins of the night before, my second helpings, snacks and rich desserts, releasing me from my night of head-throbbing, stomach churning penance, taking from me my burden. My stool allows me both universality and individuality, for each day at my stool, I am possessed of a secret, a little life all my own of which one may not speak, into which none pry, and yet I share this secret with every human, every creature.
My stool must be very interesting, for it is a forbidden subject. Even admitting an interest in one's own labels one mentally disordered. One mustn't admit to looking much at one's stool. It should be made discreetly, quickly, to vanish, as must (before one emerges) all implicated body parts.
My stool leads the way back to earth whither my body will one day follow, its intricate systems as nourishing to grass and blowflies, its expulsion as great a relief to the living as if it, too, were stool, this life a long digestive process, in the end whatever is not of the spirit
becoming the waste of spirit. If this is so, each stool is a little funeral ceremony, or part of a lifelong interment, for no stool is an island.
My stool teaches me what I am not. Thus my stool teaches me everything.

 

 

  Big Cats in Snow
Last updated: December 27, 2000