Sitting on the Crapper

A hell of a waiting game
   on a seat I clean like a maid on the hour
wilted with a broken air conditioner
   and a beastly dryer to top it all

Home howls and the bedroom scatters
   the softest breath is breathed
in the stillness and dampness of my sweet assylum
   reflections with a misty fog, but no weight to bare
                                         no hunger for vastness
                                         no hard-ons for the abstract
       -horny cries in my peasant mind for the dream world

Digesting all the world has to give
   a presence of Heaven-infused hillsides
moist mountainsides, Great Rains, shimmering green ferns
   strong to the earth; roots of reason lifted

Imperfection tones down with the chemical closet
   I expect the exquisite to skeleton my new world
but nothing
   nothing but crap for the crapper