Poetry from the porcelain throne:
I have found objective truth in bathroom stalls
flaunting the freedom of a forlorn fortress
bare bum plastered to a toilet seat
pasty skinned, awkward fumbling for
single ply redemption of my shortcomings
short-tempered contemplations found
— formed — fragilely, barriers betwixt
separating from the boisterous boasting
of college fraternity brothers 
But what kind of man am I?
Certainly no Dalai Lama,
silent swearer of curse words
in bathroom stalls under
fluorescent light fixtures
frightened at the forecast of
intruders in my checkerboard tiled
fortress of solitude
sequestered soliloquies sung,
sitting silently on the seat
Far removed, so far as —
— Flush —