Feces

The word like conjures an image
of chocolate to my mind,
along with groaning gums
and a stomach rumbling in anticipation. 
Note the phonic siblings and alikeness. 
What means it? Am I different? 
Strange? Quaint, maybe? Maybe. 
Certainly a little like you,
like you enough to appreciate
the faint similarity ’tween chocolate
and stools (the brown kind). If
your stomach is too weak
to stand associations, vomit
on this page. Thus and likewise 
was I able to establish the existence
of differences between individuals,
and profited by it. I have.
I understand. I have insight.
Like no two are alike, man.
But by puke, there is common ground
that has yet to be found out,
which is, is there, like an LCM
or HCF that will bind us together
and maybe even save the world in a cause. 
You’ve got eyes, a nose, mouth, ears
and all that, plus an ass. Note that.
You rarely see (or rather, identify) feces
in a crowd, but you must be blind to not see 
that each soul embodied on the street
is a mobile excreting factory
that a manufactured personality
cannot hide. Me, I shit, I say so.
Can you believe it? Twenty-two feet 
of assembly-line and people see only
the differences. Give or take an inch.
Skin, hide, feathers, bark,
what’s the big difference? I ask you.
People can be plumose, too.
There is pleasure in prolonging
the process of defecation, and this fullness
of feeling does not mean
there is no relief in bowel evacuation. 
Defer judgment and encounter yourself, 
have a good shit and meet me halfway, 
knowing what’s what. This is a formula 
for living. In a nutshell.



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