517 Social commentaries poems

Listen to the creepy proclamation, Blown through the lairs of the forest-nation —Vachel Lindsay 1 Who knows why my baby left me? Who knows where she could have gone? Is she hiding in the center Of some little-known downtown? Has she been seduced by villains? Have they got her gagged and bound? Vanished from the lost and found With no trace and no reminder . . . ? Yeah, she’s lost, but I will find her Down in the faraway suburbs. 2                        Puerto Rico In Guaynabo and Tao Baja The theorists and professors Are playing rhetorical poker With their identity cards, They are shooting wads of wisdom To impress the senile deans; Meanwhile, the good citizens Are all working for the government, Cheating on taxes and spouses Down in the faraway suburbs. 3                        New York The Greyhound wheezes its way From New York up to Poughkeepsie; I pass the time singing “Gypsy” By Fleetwood Mac, a cappella; And the watercolor landscape Falls apart on the gray planes; The diners and the dead-ends, The deserted factories, And the doors creak noisily Down in the faraway suburbs. 4 The are prehistoric skeletons At the beach on Staten Island And the jellyfish are dancing Slow, hydrochloric waltzes: There are Doric-style chalets With South American servants Where the little brothers play; Sniffing underarms and solvents While the dog shows off its teeth Down in the faraway suburbs. 5 Here the end of the expressway Gives way to medieval forests And correctional facilities And McDonald’s without tourists; I’m overwhelmed by the view Of the mansions on the plains, The housing projects, the flames Creeping through the dead of winter As the landfill burns tonight Down in the faraway suburbs. 6                        California In the righteous neighborhoods, Atherton, West Palo Alto, They’re paving over the asphalt With the gravel of privilege— All ones hears are the arpeggios Of the pre-recorded pianos, And the trembling of the hands That are serving themselves gin And the shot glass shattering Down in the faraway suburbs. 7 Far from all the shantytowns, In Millbrae and Redwood City, One more neighborhood committee Is creating civic centers And more monumental malls Catering to healthy pleasures: Peewee softball in the summers, Window-shopping, Cineplex, And those fruity Tex-Mex shakes Down in the faraway suburbs. 8 A distant, majestic Sun Licks the cliffs and the embankments, I search for your embalmed eye On the coast of the Pacific. Marin County  in particular Has its share of urban ghosts, Like those midget saxophonists Who long for their days of glory And are now telling their story Down in the faraway suburbs. 9 I’ve searched for you in each corner of This innocuous continent— Could it be you’re facing me? Could it be that you’re my neighbor? That the downtown and the eye balm And the grime that coats your hands Are all arcane holograms? That your epileptic smile Died that antiseptic night Down in the faraway suburbs.

Today it’s going to cost us twenty dollars To live. Five for a softball. Four for a book, A handful of ones for coffee and two sweet rolls, Bus fare, rosin for your mother’s violin. We’re completing our task. The tip I left For the waitress filters down Like rain, wetting the new roots of a child Perhaps, a belligerent cat that won’t let go Of a balled sock until there’s chicken to eat. As far as I can tell, daughter, it works like this: You buy bread from a grocery, a bag of apples From a fruit stand, and what coins Are passed on helps others buy pencils, glue, Tickets to a movie in which laughter Is thrown into their faces. If we buy a goldfish, someone tries on a hat. If we buy crayons, someone walks home with a broom. A tip, a small purchase here and there, And things just keep going. I guess.

For Carl Solomon I I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix, angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night, who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz, who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated, who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war, who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull, who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall, who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York, who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls, incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the motionless world of Time between, Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind, who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo, who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford’s floated out and sat through the stale beer afternoon in desolate Fugazzi’s, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox, who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge, a lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon, yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars, whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement, who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall, suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of China under junk-withdrawal in Newark’s bleak furnished room, who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts, who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward lonesome farms in grandfather night, who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telepathy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos instinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas, who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary indian angels who were visionary indian angels, who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy, who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on the impulse of winter midnight streetlight smalltown rain, who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa, who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fireplace Chicago, who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the FBI in beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incomprehensible leaflets, who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism, who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed, who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons, who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication, who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts, who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy, who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love, who balled in the morning in the evenings in rosegardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to whomever come who may, who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond & naked angel came to pierce them with a sword, who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman’s loom, who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a candle and fell off the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness, who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sunrise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake, who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver—joy to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses’ rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too, who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up out of basements hung-over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemployment offices, who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the East River to open to a room full of steam-heat and opium, who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion, who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of Bowery, who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music, who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts, who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of theology, who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish, who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom, who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg, who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decade, who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccessfully, gave up and were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were growing old and cried, who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality, who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened and walked away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alleyways & firetrucks, not even one free beer, who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window, jumped in the filthy Passaic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of colossal steamwhistles, who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to each other’s hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation, who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity, who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes, who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other’s salvation and light and breasts, until the soul illuminated its hair for a second, who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz, who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisychain or grave, who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hypnotism & were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury, who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism and subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding instantaneous lobotomy, and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational therapy pingpong & amnesia, who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia, returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible madman doom of the wards of the madtowns of the East, Pilgrim State’s Rockland’s and Greystone’s foetid halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rocking and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a nightmare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the moon, with mother finally ******, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 A.M. and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination— ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you’re really in the total animal soup of time— and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use of the ellipsis catalogue a variable measure and the vibrating plane, who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soul between 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head, the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death, and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America’s naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years. II What sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open their skulls and ate up their brains and imagination? Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unobtainable dollars! Children screaming under the stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men weeping in the parks! Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy judger of men! Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judgment! Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stunned governments! Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb! Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows! Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long streets like endless Jehovahs! Moloch whose factories dream and croak in the fog! Moloch whose smoke-stacks and antennae crown the cities! Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch whose poverty is the specter of genius! Moloch whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen! Moloch whose name is the Mind! Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream Angels! Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch! Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy! Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch! Light streaming out of the sky! Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisible suburbs! skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic industries! spectral nations! invincible madhouses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs! They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pavements, trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to Heaven which exists and is everywhere about us! Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies! gone down the American river! Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit! Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions! gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! Despairs! Ten years’ animal screams and suicides! Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on the rocks of Time! Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell! They jumped off the roof! to solitude! waving! carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the street! III Carl Solomon! I’m with you in Rockland where you’re madder than I am I’m with you in Rockland where you must feel very strange I’m with you in Rockland where you imitate the shade of my mother I’m with you in Rockland where you’ve murdered your twelve secretaries I’m with you in Rockland where you laugh at this invisible humor I’m with you in Rockland where we are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter I’m with you in Rockland where your condition has become serious and is reported on the radio I’m with you in Rockland where the faculties of the skull no longer admit the worms of the senses I'm with you in Rockland where you drink the tea of the breasts of the spinsters of Utica I’m with you in Rockland where you pun on the bodies of your nurses the harpies of the Bronx I’m with you in Rockland where you scream in a straightjacket that you’re losing the game of the actual pingpong of the abyss I’m with you in Rockland where you bang on the catatonic piano the soul is innocent and immortal it should never die ungodly in an armed madhouse I’m with you in Rockland where fifty more shocks will never return your soul to its body again from its pilgrimage to a cross in the void I’m with you in Rockland where you accuse your doctors of insanity and plot the Hebrew socialist revolution against the fascist national Golgotha I’m with you in Rockland where you will split the heavens of Long Island and resurrect your living human Jesus from the superhuman tomb I’m with you in Rockland where there are twentyfive thousand mad comrades all together singing the final stanzas of the Internationale I’m with you in Rockland where we hug and kiss the United States under our bedsheets the United States that coughs all night and won’t let us sleep I’m with you in Rockland where we wake up electrified out of the coma by our own souls’ airplanes roaring over the roof they’ve come to drop angelic bombs the hospital illuminates itself    imaginary walls collapse    O skinny legions run outside    O starry-spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is here    O victory forget your underwear we’re free I’m with you in Rockland in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea-journey on the highway across America in tears to the door of my cottage in the Western night San Francisco, 1955—1956 [Click here to read “A Footnote to 'Howl”]

I the people to the things that are were & come to be. We were once what we know when we make love    When we go away from each other because we have been created at 10th & A, in winter & of trees & of the history of houses we hope we are notes of the musical scale of heaven—I the people so repetitious, & my vision of to hold the neighbors loose- ly here in light of gel, my gel, my vision come out of my eyes to hold you sur- round you in gold & you don’t know it ever. Everyone we the people having our vision of gold & silver & silken liquid light flowed from our eyes & caressing all around all the walls. I am a late Pre- in this dawn of We the people to the things that are & were & come to be Once what we knew was only and numbers became It is numbers & gold & at 10th & A you don’t have to know it ever. Opening words that show Opening words that show that we were once the first to recognize the immortality of numbered bodies. And we are the masters of hearing & saying at the double edge of body & breath We the lovers & the eyes All over, inside her when the wedding is over, & the Park “lies cold & lifeless” I the people, whatever is said by the first one along, Angel-Agate. I wear your colors I hear what we say & what we say . . . (and I the people am still parted in two & would cry)

It's 70 degrees outside but in the drugstore Christmas music plays over the speakers as I stand in line balancing my checkbook in my head, stretching things thin until my next paycheck when the rent is due. The security guard cracks a joke, but I wasn't paying attention, so I just smile & step forward in line. Images move across the screen. When I think about money it seems impossible. All over the country people are moving into the streets & we're here in Atlanta starting a new life. Darkness surrounds the latest revision of our shared history. Everything clouded. Yesterday 1 couldn't tear myself from the news & already today the events have been distorted, the numbers downplayed. It's late fall & in the early morning crispness, the leaves fall from the trees & cover the sidewalks. This new feeling we lack a name for, struggle manifested in the streets & in parks & on bridges across the nation. The headlines read "Protesters clash with police," but as we watched the live stream, we saw aggression only by officers dressed in riot gear. We saw people tossed on the ground, hit with batons, a woman punched in the face, an eighty-four year old woman's face drenched in pepper spray. The images endless in this land of the free. I'm losing focus, distracted by the newsfeed on the computer screen, hitting refresh. The cat paws at my leg, demands its own attention. This shift entirely unexpected but necessary. Leaves blot the window. Every so often I leave & start from scratch, imagine damaged relationships & sick cities where there was no damage & no sickness greater than anywhere else. In Atlanta, everyone drives. The bartender called us "hardcore" when we said we'd walked there. She said, "No one in Atlanta walks anywhere." Walking home from work in post-daylight savings time darkness I pass no one on the sidewalks. I pass the traffic backed up by the stoplight. The weekend passes too quickly— I wish it would last longer, which is what this all is really about: time & my lack of control over it, my inability to do what I want with it. And there's a greater futility at work here too—a greater frustration in my inability to control my environment or to stop my country from killing its citizens. The police beat people standing still, linking arms, holding cardboard signs. Each day I think more & more about the past, about where things began to go wrong, where I, too, began to go wrong. Before I moved, before I got sick, before I unfriended you on Facebook, before I decided I no longer loved you, before New York, before college—thinking back to childhood when we could run fearless through the neighborhood at night, when we didn't think about the future, when we loved our country because we didn't know better.

I saw you painted on a ghetto wall last summer and thought don’t submit to this medium...    everybody’s running into the wall or running into each other and plagiarizing our future like mummies and nukes, I watched you hug the Mona Lisa. I wanna use the word pariah until it shrugs for us and even their disguises go limp as a fire tumbling down a hillside into the playfulness in my heart, acres and acres of a lean, almost spiritual vibe afraid of  its own momentum and then not afraid again

When they confess that they have lost the penial bone and outer space is Once again a numinous void, when they’re kept out of Other Places, And Dr Fieser falls asleep at last and dreams of unburnt faces, When gold medals are won by the ton for forgetting about the different races, God Bless America. When in the Latin shanties the scented priesthood suffers metempsychosis And with an organ entry tutti copula the dollar uncrosses Itself and abdicates, when the Pax Americana cuts its losses And a Pinkville memorial’s built in furious shame by Saigon’s puppet bosses,God Bless America. When they can be happy without noise, without knowing where on earth they’ve been, When they cease to be intellectual tourists and stop wanting to be clean, When they send their children to bed at the proper time and say just what they mean, And no longer trust the Quarterly Symposium and the Vicarious Screen,God Bless America. When they feel thoroughly desolated by the short-haired Christ they pray to, When they weep over their plunder of Europe stone by stone, releasing Plato And other Freshman Great Books, when they switch off their Hoover and unplug Nato, Pulling the chain on the CIA and awarding Time a rotten potato,God Bless America. When qua-birds, quickhatches and quinnets agree at last to admit the quail, When Captain Queeg is seen descending from the bridge as small and pale As everyone else, and is helped with sympathetic murmurs to the rail, When the few true defenders of love and justice survive to tell the tale,Then, perhaps then, God Bless America.

in this moment of orangutans, wolves, and scavengers, of high heat redesigning the north & south poles and the wanderings of new tribes in limousines, with the confirmations of liars, thieves, and get-over artists, in the wilderness of pennsylvania avenue, standing rock, misspelled executive orders on yellow paper with crooked signatures. where are the kind language makers among us? at a time of extreme climate damage, deciphering fake news, alternative truths, and me-ism you saw the twenty-first century and left us not on your own accord or permission. you have fought and fought most of the twentieth century creating an army of poets who learned and loved language and stories of complicated rivers, seas, and oceans. where is the kind green nourishment of kale and wheatgrass? you thought, wrote, and lived poetry, knew that terror is also language based on denial, first-ism, and rich cowards. you were honey and yes to us, never ran from Black as in bones, Africa, blood and questioning yesterdays and tomorrows. we never saw you dance but you had rhythm, you were a warrior before the war, creating earth language, uncommon signs and melodies, and did not sing the songs of career slaves. keenly aware of tubman, douglass, wells-barnett, du bois, and the oversized consciousness and commitment of never-quit people religiously taking note of the bloodlust enemies of kindness we hear your last words: america if you see me as your enemy you have no friends.

what thoughts I have of you tonight, Du Bois of bodies rocked and minds embalmed in bark our blanched arrival—seethin with scandal's mark nowadays I peep you in the bean-pie seller's poise with that silhouette fit for bust or cameo I can't always divine your debonair birth or your boocoo brain laborin like an earth in hallelujah's ether, somehow duckin death's blow sure sprung from Imhotep's kundalini stitchin white reconstruction's funeral shroud scriptin Philly dirges for the cryin out loud cussin Garvey's name over martinis sometimes I wonder if you double agent on the page or mastermind of our ordered rage

To the gentlemen from the south to the tourists from the north who write poems about the south to the dumb-ass students I’d like to ask one lousy question have you ever seen a regatta of flies sail around a pile of shit and then come back and picnic on the shit just once in your life have you heard flies on shit because I cut my eye teeth on flies floating in shit