Cycle 10: Like Shit

The mind is the idea of the body, Spinoza said. What is the idea of the mouth? The stomach? The ass? How does the mind eat? Excrete? (Thinking thinking thinking the mind eats its own shit.)

My penis is my pen, piss and spunk my ink.

Though the idea offends us (we reserve our strongest disgust for what was – or is – a part of us), we are what we shit. (Archaeologists have always known – human history is written in shit.)

Every day I touch my shit. How can I describe the feel of it? It’s like . . . It’s really not like anything. (Because it can’t swallow reality, the comparing mind can’t stop shitting metaphors – but the incomparable world abides, undefilable.)

Each time I touch pencil to paper, I'm reminded that the line between order and disorder, purity and contamination is paper-thin. (Let this be my epitaph: Here lies one whose life was writ on paper.)

Shit is every artist’s first creation. (All artists are fundamentally shitters.) Before expressionism, surrealism, Dada, there was shit – more expressionist than Munch, more surrealist than Dali, more Dada than Duchamp.

Words words words swirling down time’s drain. Picking out the clogs that slow time down, I offer them to you.

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