Uncollected 56, Manscaping

It is kind of hard shaving your asshole.

It’s a bit of a blind spot really. I have many.

Blind spots, not assholes.

Why do I do it? I do it like I do many things.

Like writing poems.

I am wondering if poems are like assholes–

hard to find, delicate,

somewhere you shouldn’t go near with a razor.

Yet we feel compelled. I even listen with razors.

If I was like Burroughs and could

write a man to teach an asshole to talk,

what would it say? Mine always looks angry

at least in the mirror. Mirrors are funny though.

In a car once with my brother, I heard

an interview in which DFW said

he believed something down to his asshole.

What he believed, I can’t remember

even at the time it didn’t seem

as interesting as the fact he could

feel that belief in his asshole.

I’ve never felt anything that deep.

Maybe my sphincter lacks conviction?

I’ll deal with that later. For tonight

my little rosebud will have to be content

with being groomed: bald and beautiful.

Now I realize a poet asks a lot

when he asks the reader to contemplate his asshole.

It is a little past “don’t go there”

and more into “what the fuck?”

If you are still reading, thank you for indulging me.

Where do poems come from and why do I like them

is a knotted mystery to me.

Tipping my seat to DFW I never fail to feel

that kind of uncertainty where the poems don’t shine.


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