Filibuster

Earl David Freeland

Does your asshole ever get jealous
of the shit that comes out of your mouth?

Does it sit there, bitter, knowing
it was built for the job—
but never gets the credit,
never gets the press,
the retweets,
the chants from crowds
high on the stench?

Maybe it listens, arms crossed—
(if it had arms)—
and thinks,

At least I let it drop.
At least I let it go.

But you—

you let it linger, congeal,
stack high like a golden tower—

(wait—no, not gold, not real gold,
just plated, just flash,
just the cheap kind that flakes off
when handled too rough)

where facts got paved over.

What a thing,
to spew and call it gospel,
to flood the room with words—
swollen, reeking, clinging,
sliding slick down the walls—

no matter how many times
they scrub the halls.

And the worst part?

It never runs out.

You just keep going,
and they keep coming back,
spoons in hand.