I think that I could be in the bathroom,
all damn day.
Not talking to anyone.
Shitting a fuck ton.
I wouldn’t care what day it was out in the bloom,
blue or gray.
Reading all of the poetry and short stories
and long stories and biographies—auto or otherwise.
Smoke cigarettes mixed with my methane
excretion mixing in an unbearable fog.
People gagging and choking and me reading
and writing and laughing at their cries.
Just laughing it up.
Just sitting, shitting, and laughing it up.