I think that I could be in the bathroom,

all damn day.

Not talking to anyone.

Just sitting.

Just shitting.

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.

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