The IBS Guy

We went to a little coffee shop in Orange for a poetry open mic this Wednesday. It was just like ten thousand other open mics, except for one critical and hilarious thing: The IBS Guy. The first dude that read (we’ll call him Henry) walked up to the podium and engaged the crowd in a few pleasantries. So far so good. Then, just before beginning one of his two pieces, he gently tapped his right hand on the center of his chest, took a pronounced gulp, and announced nonchalantly, “I’m gassy”—to which the crowd laughed uneasily in what was a mixture of embarrassment and bewilderment. But that was just the beginning. Henry paused and, completely unashamed and without a sense of sarcasm or ironic bravado (I love him for this), said, “I’m like Spiderman . . . except, my superpower isn’t, you know, a web . . . mine’s like . . . IBS.”

I was howling. It’s the best thing I’ve ever heard at a poetry reading that was “non-scripted.” For those of you who may not know—making Henry’s little introduction even more confusing than it actually was—IBS is an acronym for irritable bowel syndrome. Another name for IBS is “spastic colon.” Enough said.

In honor of the occasion, and dedicated to Henry, I thought I would print the words to my spoken word piece “Spastic Colon,” which appeared on the 404 Not Found CD Nightmare Lullaby. As with many of my spoken word pieces, it does not lend itself well to the page, so you can listen to it here: http://www.geocities.com/sssiders/words_page.html.

Spastic Colon

Richard

a very white

well-dressed

corporate man

walks down main street

past meter maids & street sweepers

& opens the door to Flamingo Joe’s

flower shop

It’s Valentine’s Day

Standing there

peering at roses

he focuses on the stems

the thorns there

He pricks his finger on several of them

& when he fails to draw blood

thinks

these won’t do

Then out comes Joe with a fresh batch

tall & erect

obviously just plucked from the earth

their red lips pressed tightly together

Our man Richard finds the perfect dozen

every stem drawing blood

& as he jerks them from the bucket

he notices a small trembling

a sharp discomfort in his stomach

Having reached its destination

the meatball sandwich he ate at lunch

is fighting it out with the rum and cokes

he washed it down with

He quickly makes his way to the counter

hands over his credit card

& waits

the trembling

now

most certainly

a rumbling

Regardless of this development

our man Richard stands almost patiently at the counter

signs the paper

& walks out with the roses

he’s purchased for his wife

or his girlfriend

his wife

or girlfriend

He hasn’t decided exactly

but probably they’re for the wife

Up the street

next stop

jewelry

a more difficult situation

The options are overwhelming like

the gurgling in his stomach is overwhelming

Inside the glass

everything is glitter

The counter is packed with men shifting for position

Our man Richard

no stranger to the game

maneuvers his way to the front

the jewels laid out on display

like newborn children

A diamond is a girlfriend’s best friend

& Richard wastes no time pointing out

the necklace he wants

A ring would be too difficult

& besides

his body is ALL SYSTEMS GO

his bowels getting the green light

He’s sweating

pausing a moment to hold back disaster

his cheeks squeezed together and he’s

wiping sweat from his brow

Our man keeps his cool

says Boy, you guys got ‘em packed in here today, huh?

the man nods

wraps up the necklace

& Richard abruptly hands the credit card over

& out into the early evening he goes

his sphincter working harder than

a one-legged mule in an ass-kicking contest

Our man gingerly situates himself in his Lexus

drives from the curb

ever so slowly

mingles with traffic

ever so easily

& then the light changes yellow

The guy in the Chevy slams the brakes

& Richard stops just inches from the bumper

He’s shouting

Go

Motherfucker

Go!

& in all the excitement Richard’s sphincter eases its grip

& a minor explosion stings him to the seat

The next ten minutes are a blur

Richard races home

the war inside him

battling steadily on

the whole way

the radioman wishing everyone

a happy Valentine’s Day

Finally home

our man grabs the flowers

stuffs the necklace in his overcoat

& with his legs

sprung at the knees like a cowboy’s

he ventures towards the house with roses outstretched

As he crosses the threshold of the house

however

our man’s spastic colon erupts

from its rigid

road-sign sphincter

into the mutability of the off-road

underwear world

The wife greets him at the door with wine & a smile

At the sight of her he lets go the roses

the thorns shredding his hands

His terrified face says it all

She screams and spills the wine

Our man

frozen in February

his mouth is speechless

open

Richard’s already spoken

His face says it all

There are 605 days remaining in Bush’s presidency.