levitating on the toilet

thinking of my father

who pontificated once

about colonics.

everyone is walking

around disgusted

with themselves

he said, but we’re all

pink inside.

dad, why?

see, i’m always asking

for more information so

this is where you urge

my milking stop. urge

the orchestra quiet. 

place a salty finger on the lips 

of the pulpit. 

finally shhhhhh me 

into the blue-black 

quiet of unknowing 

where I am counting

beans or shucking corn.

skinning rabbit looking

up to say i have no idea

how to — shhhhhhhh.

alone in the tar black quiet.