Sitting on the latrine contemplating my toes,
I reach out and nonchalantly scratch my nose,
The scenery is too familiar yet vaguely distant,
The posture is helpless, yet the feeling omnipotent.

Neil Rollinson’s giant puffballs came to my mind,
And thoughts of ancestors defecating in the wilderness,
Communicating with mother earth from their behind,
Caressing the soil with their orifice in all coziness.

As the excrements resemble an umbilical cord,
That touches back with the one that gave them life,
Long before their father and the womb of his wife,
As all energies of being, tried to meet up and concord.

With nature’s established cycle of particles and matter,
Channeling all the love to the heart of the matter,
As man and the elements enter in the same wave,
Because both of them the same affection they crave.

With time and days, man’s leftovers are slowly torn,
And rich, nourishing, black compost is born,
As the universe is connected through dirt without scorn,
I think there’s nothing filthy about it, so let’s not blow the horn.