Acrylic paint on canvas. Contains a poem (disguised as graffiti) I wrote following a visit to a particularly unsavory men's room in an unremembered library. The urinal is based on the fine fixtures in the men's room at the Museum of Printing History in Houston, Texas. Dimensions: 18" high x 14" wide. Here's the poem: The suction of the plumbing as 1.6 gallons transform into a new 1.6 gallonsWith traces of its predecessor.The suction of my sneaker soles on the tiles,Where different traces are trapped between liquid and evaporation. Earth tones I will carry with me into the world. The pubic hair filigree on the urinal edge registers recent visitsOf swarthy men to the fixture.The handle is moist--all the handles are moist.When there are handles. When there are handles I operate them with my sleeve-covered wrists. Swollen crotches threatened by other things swollen.The language of the stall walls, executed in etches.It concerns me that knives emerge in hereAnd that every position I can assume is an expressionOf some vulnerability:Hands occupied below a faucet.Back exposed as I stand, pants undone as I sitIn elimination. Who knows what assaults my nose?Unspeakable meals recycled.Odors are alive, you know. Science can demonstrate it. How shallowly can you breatheAnd still not breathe?