Praise Poem
So this is my praise poem I wrote for my poetry. Honestly, it cracks me up. ((Yes, Stephie, the toilet paper line is in it.))
Devra Was Here
There is nothing better
to read in the public bathroom
than the graffiti on the walls.
While Stephanie hoards toilet paper
in the stall next to me, I read the
novels carved angrily into the cheap
plaster walls. Sometimes I wonder
who Mike is and why he was here.
Sometimes I wonder how reliable
bathroom philosophy is. Most times
I like it when you’re naked. (Non sequitor.)
I want to call the numbers on the walls
and ask if I can really have a good time
with the girl who’s name is scrawled
there. I wonder if anybody calls.
I go into restrooms for propriety’s sake.
(Girls can’t go alone, and I’m usually with a girl.)
I can’t do anything with them, though
when someone else is within hearing shot.
I hate bodily functions.
My mother has taught me
(through genetics) to hold my urine
all day if I have to.
Public bathrooms, I shun you.
(Wait, no I don’t. I love you, come back to me.)
I make graffiti there on a whim
once in a while, and I check it every
so often. Most of the time it’s gone.
Sometimes it’s not.
Public bathrooms scare me, sometimes.
They’re too pure for me, too somber.
Those temples of crossed legs,
running water, scented soap that
chafes your hands, making them drier than ever.
I avoid them, but I love them,
the same love I have for churches,
big, old buildings (like the Big Ol’ Union, only less Russian)
that I stare at, unannounced, wondering if Jewish Agnostics
are allowed to confess, just to hear another
voice telling them that God is still there.
You learn too much about a person
from their habits in the bathroom.
We should be trained from birth
to wash our hands after doing whatever.
I get upset when someone doesn’t wash
after coming out of a stall.
I want to wet a paper towel with soap
and hand it to them.
(Oh please God, remember cleanliness,
don’t touch me.)
Once, sat in a church with Grace
and it was silent, and when the priest shook my hand
I had to excuse myself and wash tens of thousands of times.
(Please, God of Jews, forgive me.
Please, God of Agnostics, I love you, too.)
Churches, I can’t pray in you.
Bathrooms, I can’t piss in you.
But, graffiti, beautiful graffiti,
I can still write you.
Any feed back is tres appreciated. <3
Devra Was Here
There is nothing better
to read in the public bathroom
than the graffiti on the walls.
While Stephanie hoards toilet paper
in the stall next to me, I read the
novels carved angrily into the cheap
plaster walls. Sometimes I wonder
who Mike is and why he was here.
Sometimes I wonder how reliable
bathroom philosophy is. Most times
I like it when you’re naked. (Non sequitor.)
I want to call the numbers on the walls
and ask if I can really have a good time
with the girl who’s name is scrawled
there. I wonder if anybody calls.
I go into restrooms for propriety’s sake.
(Girls can’t go alone, and I’m usually with a girl.)
I can’t do anything with them, though
when someone else is within hearing shot.
I hate bodily functions.
My mother has taught me
(through genetics) to hold my urine
all day if I have to.
Public bathrooms, I shun you.
(Wait, no I don’t. I love you, come back to me.)
I make graffiti there on a whim
once in a while, and I check it every
so often. Most of the time it’s gone.
Sometimes it’s not.
Public bathrooms scare me, sometimes.
They’re too pure for me, too somber.
Those temples of crossed legs,
running water, scented soap that
chafes your hands, making them drier than ever.
I avoid them, but I love them,
the same love I have for churches,
big, old buildings (like the Big Ol’ Union, only less Russian)
that I stare at, unannounced, wondering if Jewish Agnostics
are allowed to confess, just to hear another
voice telling them that God is still there.
You learn too much about a person
from their habits in the bathroom.
We should be trained from birth
to wash our hands after doing whatever.
I get upset when someone doesn’t wash
after coming out of a stall.
I want to wet a paper towel with soap
and hand it to them.
(Oh please God, remember cleanliness,
don’t touch me.)
Once, sat in a church with Grace
and it was silent, and when the priest shook my hand
I had to excuse myself and wash tens of thousands of times.
(Please, God of Jews, forgive me.
Please, God of Agnostics, I love you, too.)
Churches, I can’t pray in you.
Bathrooms, I can’t piss in you.
But, graffiti, beautiful graffiti,
I can still write you.
Any feed back is tres appreciated. <3