I
had one of those earlier this week. Precautionary, I was told. Being thorough. A
camera higher up inside than I could have imagined. And yes, as unpleasant as
it was, the preparation – drinking four litres of Peglyte on an otherwise empty
stomach – was far worse (fruit flavoured? What would it have tasted like
regular? That must have been some very gross fruit). Everything = ugh.
Doctors
are good. Precautions are good. One wishes to remain healthy.
Incredible
thanks, of course, to mother-in-law for taking Rose to school and watching Aoife,
and Christine’s cousin Paul McNair for accompanying me on said hospital
excursion.
As
I write this (Monday afternoon), things are still a haze, but I thought it
worth repeating that infamous poem by the late Daniel Jones, “Things I Have Put
Into My Asshole,” a poem that appeared in his poetry collection The Brave Never Write Poetry. Originally
produced by Coach House Press in 1985, the book was later reissued by Coach House
Books in 2011 (is it worth seeing if there’s enough work for a larger Jones
volume, perhaps?), which makes this formerly-lost classic still in print. I had
the thought of this poem (a piece that had been plastered around Toronto for years
by Nicky Drumbolis, jwcurry and others after he died) mid-point through Monday’s
procedure.
In
the end, it might have been my only solace.
Things I
Have Put Into My Asshole
Saliva & semen & butter & baby oil,
tongues & thumbs & fingers of women,
the cock of an old man,
the cock of a Mexican boy,
the cock of my sister’s boyfriend,
my hand,
candles & felt marking pens,
cucumbers & carrots,
Sandra’s mother’s vibrator,
the intersection of Bathurst & Queen,
Honest Ed’s Warehouse,
Hamilton Ontario,
& just today the CN Tower:
I came all over Bay Street,
as the world’s highest disco
rotated upon my prostate.
YOU ARE FREE NOW TORONTONIANS!
It lies limp on the frozen surface
of Lake Ontario.
You can barely see the tungsten bulbs
through the film of K-Y jelly.
GO FREE TORONTONIANS!
The small sacrifice
of a very large asshole.
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