As a human, shamanic storyteller,
there is something that gives me a curious

pleasure of knowing.  When I enter a public

bathroom to do the business at hand, nature's

calling, the deed Number Two, I anticipate

a common sharing that is hidden but evident,
Subtle but profound, tiny but large.

The pleasure in knowing comes
as I -- once enshrined in a stall --
lower my pants to the floor and follow
through by lowing my body to the white
seat.  Where I, instantly, note the warmth
(or lack thereof) of the seat beneath me.

Left by the person before, this lingering warmth
suggests a lifetime of stories and concerns,
shackles of love and total releases. The
remnant energy speaks volumes to me as
it rises through the skin of my own underworld,
up into my heart and my blood and my soul.

The warmth left behind -- a gift no doubt 
scrubbed away with steel wool and bleach,

if only the person had known how much warm

body energy is left behind for others to share.
This warmth which to me is like a secret nudge
of camaraderie, a sharing of our most intimate stuff.

And as I pull up my pants, zip up my fly, and buckle
my belt, I smile because there is nothing this person or
any person can do to prevent this most sacred and intimate
encounter with others.  Even to deny oneself a
bathroom trip, to risk constipation and worse, would do
nothing to ward off such a profound meeting of souls.

For poets and storytelling shamans don’t ned a warm toilet to
get into another human’s mind.  The creative one can see
through another person’s skin and into their soul as easy as
toast.  She or he simply honors the enlightened in another. 
And through the skin of their bodies or the membrane of their
own knowing, such relationships are fixed and fused forever.

Copyright © September 20, 2006,

Revised June 30, 2007 by Michael Walker