...Cold White Porcelain...

Once upon a time in days of yore, 

you could actually perform 

the solitary act of flushing a toilet 

  all by your lonesome.

It was a time of boldness, 

  when you were on your own.

When you were    self-empowered.

When you and only you 

got to make the choice

as to when the present ended

   and the past began.

The moment when you 

were permitted to say,

“That…    That was me.

That was me but here at

this    precise    moment,

   it all ends.

Herewith I begin anew.

I     have had enough    of that     shit.”

Yes, in a lifetime of existence

where-upon every movement 

  from inner to outer

is enveloped within the usurping need

   of an almighty other,    

  there is no lever.

No lever to  

  lever yourself away

     from that which you once were.

No.      Now there is a sensor.

An electronic eye that

acknowledges your significant presence

at this moment of     

soulful evacuation.

I think therefore I am.

I make ca-ca     therefore I was.

Fecal fidelity unto    forlorn finality.

In these times of rampant existential angst,

I suppose it’s a good thing that

urinals have built in flush sensors.

Well…     Good for men anyway.

Surely there are moments when a woman

acquires notable issues with self-esteem.

Moments when her 

corporeal presence tends to ebb.

Moments when she wanes and

her timid trace tilts to translucence.

When she looks at her reflection 

there in the mirror

and comes to question whether

what she   in reality  sees

is a sheath of spectral skin…

A taunt ethereal veil

on the verge of evaporation.

An accursed vacuous hull,

she paints her face with

opaque pigmentation

in an effort to elude 

the evanescent

and yet…   

And yet there she stands,

fraught at the thought 

of perpetual dénouement.

Tis a Sisyphean ordeal 

of whichwe men 

are mostly spared.

Throughout the day

we expose ourselves 

before porcelain

and there at the final 

shudder of expenditure,

ease away with an 

upward zip of dismissal,

there to have the all knowing 

  omnipotent sensor

acknowledge the absence of our

waggle worthy wieners

with a wash of whirling water.

There throughout the day,

we return again and again

to stand flaccid before white ceramic,

full well knowing 

our pending benediction

by way of     valvular      validation

   is only moments away.

We   men   are   so    vain.

What would we be 

without our precious urinals?

Subjugated to that well-worn whim 

  of the willful woman?

“Ye gods man!

Just once in your life

could you put 

the frickin’ 

toilet seat down?!”

Tis a hateful hurtful mantra 

  of ill-will intent.

A sexual social 

interactive conflict

of malignant significance

which the advent 

of the upright urinal

   all but alleviated.

Indeed, here in the 21^stcentury,

the horrific contact of bare buttock to

cold white porcelain

has become a folkloric tale

told to insight 

convulsive spasms of terror

around the glow 

of late night campfires.

Ah well…

Such is life in the modern world.

But there was a time 

  before porcelain.

Before urinals.

Before indoor plumbing.

   The stained chamber pot.

      The rustic outhouse.

A time when we stood in the woods

with our fuzzy pudenda 

exposed to the gods of old.

It was a laughable matter,

  but not to us,

because we   

did not     get   

  the joke.

With no flush sensor 

to provide our noble affirmation,

we stood naked     

amidst that of    hoof and tail;

that of tangled root and clinging vine;

that of brutal tooth and     horn.

Yes, back in those 

feral days of ignorance.

In those ecstatic days of    Eden.

In those primeval days

when a man 

or woman 

could stand    

(or squat)    

and say,

“This…    

This looks like   

a damn good spot.”

And indeed     

there was a time 

  when it was.

©09 Jack Hubbell