In the end, there will be koans written to my asshole
is no shitting in fiction
I get up to take a shit, my head and insides fuzzy from that
bottle of wine I couldn't stop myself from drinking. "Oh
god," I say. The min pin stares at me as I strain.
the hell did he come from?
asshole burning bright
It burned burned burned like a ring of fire…a ring of fire.
I wanna my rim job…hey digi digi…
I wanna my rim job, hey, c'mon
I am so goddamned mature. Just ask me. Or my fearful symmetry.
not enough shit in fiction?
James Joyce wrote about anal birth in Ulysses; I think it was
in the Circe section where he modernist-mashupped,
mongrelizing words. In letters to his sweet sweet Nora, Joyce
describes fucking the farts out of her. Somewhere someone in
Dublin's taking a shit and reading Ulysses right now, and
someone's fucking and farting, in love. This is not profound
or ironic; I'm just saying.
think there was shit in Scorch Atlas, Blake Butler's
apocalyptic vision, but I think Butler called it
"manure." Manure raining from the heavens seems more
earth-friendly than shit. More old-fashioned and harmless.
Nostalgic even. I don't think that was the point. Maybe it's a
POV thing. Maybe it's a guy thing. Maybe it's a god thing.
the post-apocalyptic collection I'm creating in my head,
William Blake plays one motherfucking angry Judeo-Christian
Yahweh manifested in the form of a burning min pin who
defecates long turds of shit on those who don't have the
faith. James Joyce and the scheisse freaks scream with
delight, which just goes to show one man's treasure…Ironically,
it is post-postmodern humanity's inability to think beyond
adages and clichés which pisses poet-God old Tyger Tyger
Blake/Yahweh off in the first place.
you see Kay…
Bukowski talked about his beer shits frequently; I also
happened to be a connoisseur of cheap beer at the time. My
girls and I would buy rounds of piss pitchers at the dive bar
a block from my rental that had somehow become fashionable.
The bar, that is, my rental will never be fashionable,
especially since the Lithuanian old school landlord sold it to
a hipster-wannabe who painted the door some weird off-magenta,
a color that suggests severe vaginal inflammation or baboon
ass irritation, and no, our cheap beer wasn't really that
highly successful American pisswater, that American simulacra
of some kind of hops concoction, it was darker than piss and
saltier. Like piss with blood in it, maybe. A blue collar
immigrant's version of Coors or Pabst: we could taste workers'
sweat and tears, I swear. I'd always wake up with my tongue
stuck to the hard ridge of the top of my mouth. I'd always
wake up and check to see who was in bed with me. It could have
been anyone, but my girls kept me from some real doozies. They
also kept me from the winners I think. A fair trade, I guess…
bitches. Now, the dive bar's back to being a shithole. I've
gone there looking for my ex-marine, but all I've seen are
roaches scurrying over the Rose's Lime Juice to get to
something sweeter. I don't drink cheap beer now if I can help
it; I also don't get laid ever anymore. Especially not in tin
tubs or with ice cube foreplay; it's a goddamned shame.
is too much shit in fiction.
I will bleach my anus until it is white white white. When I
bend over it will be like a revelation. Buddhists will write
koans to my asshole. The only thing I'll ever know about
Buddhism is transmigration. Perhaps my asshole is a portal;
perhaps souls pass through it every second. To get the soul
gunk off, I'll have to bleach and floss frequently, which will
cost me a pretty penny. Damn souls. I may have to go back to
cheap beer, which might get me laid again. But can the souls
withstand a rim job? Am I responsible for their safety if I'm
just an instrument or something?
buttocks flap and there is a sound; what is the sound of one
If I were uber wealthy, I would have a secret bathroom hidden
behind my master bath. To enter it, you would have to find the
secret retinal scanner that opened the innocuous-looking
mirrored wall behind my double stainless steel Kohler lavatory
wading pool sinks. There would be a waterfall and a flower
garden and an aviary and a full bar and a library and a robot
programmed to know what kind of book/drink combination I'd
want each morning. A mimosa and Murakami, a bloody mary and
Melville, a whiskey manhattan and Brett Easton Ellis; the
possible combos are endless. It would get to be so that I
wouldn't know if the robot were psychic or if I'd lost the
capability of choice and hence, free will. The robot would
also have laser eyes to shoot and kill anyone who tried to
access my secret sanctum. Cause no one but me's allowed in
this one. Not even my ex-marine. He'd be killed and then what
would be the point of him having survived Gulf War 1? Or all
the knives I threw at him that one time he broke up with me on
my bday and ran away to join the circus or some shit?
Buddhists say that's the point; there is no point. Accept it.
Which of course, makes me duck back into my secret bathroom
for a quick binge and purge fest of twinkies and not-dogs and
cucumbers and anything else phallic but not too sexual. The
Buddhist asshole says nothing while allowing souls to traverse
its sphincter. Without bleaching. The Buddhist robot says,
Goddamn it, get off the pot and bring me a fucking drink some
time. The Buddhist robot's caught up in Samsara, if you
couldn't tell. Poor guy; poor ungendered thingy. But the min
pin just stares and says nothing, because in min pin's head
he's an original housewife of Orange County and doesn't talk
to anyone who can't enhance her wealth, celebrity, fuckability,
or fearful symmetry.
would like to play chess with Sam Pink and talk about writing
and shit but the pieces would probably become miniature
grenades and blow our digits off
& that has nothing to do with the ex-marine, Buddhism,
robots, or one pervy-diety min pin. I could make an ass wipe
joke here, but I've been accused of taking things too far
before. The ex-marine, when I pulled him to me by his leather
coat lapels and blew smoke into his face, was one time. When I
broke up with him again in a Tiki bar and hula-ed, grass
skirted, bare foot, coconut bra-ed, and suddenly Hawaiian, out
the door, another. When I pretended to be Marlene Dietrich in
that Orson Wells movie and blew smoke in Charlton Heston's
face and told him the ex-marine was some kind of a man. When I
pulled the ex-marine to me by his leather lapels in the middle
of the disco and tried to inhale his soul. Too far, he said,