Something pulled from the anus to gift humankind
Is of maximum benefit. No one complains
Of the odor contingent nor toxic effect
Of the degrading process that stains self-respect.
One who offers a bathing may go through great pains
Yet encounter resentment which then blows his mind.
Who maintains the illusion? Indeed, is there one?
Is it I who supports what I can’t understand?
Or is there a world order of which I’m apart
That surpasses my knowledge and alien heart?
I can sense severe effort by how I demand
What it is that I’m missing. What is to be done?
If excessive and useless describes what I give
And/or how I present it then how do I err?
Spirit says if there’s struggle then it’s a sure clue
That I’m far off my path in the thing that I do.
I could leave life alone, but that wouldn’t be fair.
There must be some solution that I can then live.
Where I am in life matters itself to no one
But the eternal spirit internal among
Other selves now alive in dimensions unknown
That belong to me also. They need not be shown
To this self nor to others. The virulent tongue
Is the grandest illusion that’s ever begun.
What is communicated is straight from my heart
Made of flesh and of substances I can’t describe.
I need not live in worry of not being heard.
There are no ears to hear. Perhaps that is preferred.
There are none I’m among now to claim as my tribe.
To the thick fecal air I have much to impart.