Fart

As a boy, growing up on the Marine Corps base of Camp Pendleton in southern California, my brother and I would foray, stealthily, among the bivouac encampments, miles from home on long, summer days, exploring whatever would happen. It so happens we came upon a latrine, maybe fifteen feet square, tent roof on corner posts, slat-wood wainscot for privacy, mosquito screen for walls and for aeration. We recon’d the area and found it deserted, so we slipped inside. Whew, the screen didn’t seem to be working all that well, for the smell was, was…well, a latrine. Dirt floor, a square plank of seats, toilet holes, four or five to a side, centered ‘round a pit dug in the ground. No sinks, no mirrors, maybe a light bulb, I don’t recall. Situated about a hundred yards uphill of the encampment, we felt isolated and safe from discovery, so we explored, wandering around the stinkhole, reading the bawdy scribbling of soldier life. My brother saw one of those soldiers heading up the path toward the outhouse and we flew into action, quickly. I unfolded my pocket knife, slit a screen, and we slid out the back. We were never in danger, of course, but the adventure was complete. I stole a treasure that day, which still resounds, in words inscribed on the wooden slats of that latrine:

          Some people come to shit and stink,
          Others come to sit and stink,
          But I come here to scratch my balls
          And read the writing on the walls.

Amen in the men’s room!

The men’s room, where I have had to go
Since childhood,
Since manhood,
Even now I dread the public show,
The crass fart.

It starts with men, and goes back to when
Men, like their dogs,
Would pee on logs,
Or bushes and toilet seats and then,
A loud fart,

Followed by a large fart that sets fire
To a lit match,
No need to scratch,
Bare butt exposed, mooning, desire,
The great fart.

Public bathrooms on the interstate
Challenge my core,
Piss on the floor,
Grimy doors, slime sinks, I can’t relate,
Then the fart.

There’s no apology in the john,
A breaking wind
From out the end,
A belch harmony to join in on
A toot fart.

No need to stop here, the locker rooms
Are fertile ground
For male surround,
All on display amid rising plumes,
Great, gas farts.

Men are disgusting, more or less, chance
That more is true,
From me to you,
Passed from father to son, flatulence,
Public farts.

After slitting the netting and slipping out the back of the latrine, my brother and I crouched noiselessly, afraid to run, but curious about the approaching soldier. He entered through the slat-board door. We could hear him unbuckle and unzip. Looking at each other, we tried not to crack up – it was the secrecy and intimacy of the moment. We could hardly contain ourselves when the soldier let out a big, fat fart.