Poop

I never considered myself a fan of the Beat Poets. When I am in the mood for poetry, I usually turn to Yeats. I've recently discovered, however, that despite my dislike of most beat poetry, I love a number of Charles Bukowski's poems. My favorite of all time from him is a poem entitled "Poop." It's amazing. I even find myself craving to read it from time to time. The problem here is that I can't seem to find it anywhere online! Many poems by many many poets can be found somewhere in the interwebs, including most of Bukowski's catalog. Poop, however, cannot. I imagine that part of the reason is because it went unpublished for quite some time. As to why it's never made it online since being published, I have no idea. I finally found the book that contains it, and so for my future enjoyment, and for any others who love this poem and can't find it, I'm going to list it here. It can be found in his book called The Pleasures of the Damned: Poems, 1951-1993 published by HarperCollins in 2007, pages 189-193.

Poop by Charles Bukowski

I remember, he told me, that when I was 6 or

7 years old my mother was always taking me 

to the doctor and saying, "he hasn't pooped."

she was always asking me, "have you

pooped?"

it seemed to be her favorite question.

and, of course, I couldn't lie, I had real problems

pooping.

I was all knotted up inside.

my parents did that to me.

I looked at those huge beings, my father,

my mother, and they seemed really stupid.

sometimes I thought they were just pretending

to be stupid because nobody could really be that

stupid.

but they weren't pretending.

they had me all knotted up inside like a pretzel.

I mean, I had to live with them, they told

me what to do and how to do it and when.

they fed, housed and clothed me.

and worst of all, there was no other place for

me to go, no other choice:

I had to stay with them.

I mean, I didn't know much at that age

but I could sense that they were lumps

of flesh and little else.

dinnertime was the worst, a nightmare

of slurps, spittle and idiotic conversation.

I looked straight down at my plate and tried

to swallow my food but

it all turned to glue inside.

I couldn't digest my parents or the food.

that must have been it, for it was hell for me

to poop.

"have you pooped?"

and there I'd be in the doctor's office once again.

he had a little more sense than my parents but

not much.

"well, well, my little man, so you haven't pooped?"

he was fat with bad breath and body odor and

had a pocket watch with a large gold chain

that dangled across his gut.

I thought, I bet he poops a load.

and I looked at my mother.

she had large buttocks,

I could picture her on the toilet,

sitting there a little cross-eyed, pooping.

she was so placid, so

like a pigeon.

poopers both, I knew it in my heart.

disgusting people.

"well, little man, you just can't poop,

huh?"

he made a little joke of it: he could,

she could, the world could.

I couldn't.

"well, now, we're going to give you

these pills.

and if they don't work, then guess

what?"

I didn't answer.

"come on, little man, tell me."

all right, I decided to say it.

I wanted to get out of there:

"an enema."

"an enema," he smiled.

then he turned to my mother.

"and are you all right, dear?"

"oh, I'm fine, doctor!"

sure she was.

she pooped whenever she wanted.

then we would leave the office.

"isn't the doctor a nice man?"

no answer from me.

"isn't he?"

"yes."

but in my mind I changed it to, yes,

he can poop.

he looked like a poop.

the whole world pooped while I

was knotted up inside like a pretzel.

then we would walk out on the street

and I would look at the people passing

and all the people had behinds.

"that's all I ever noticed," he told me,

"it was horrible."

"we must have had similar

childhoods," I said.

"somehow, that doesn't help at all,"

he said.

"we've both got to get over this

thing," I said.

"I'm trying," he answered.