If you've never considered that the human body is just a soft sack encasing wet machinery, you are not Kevin Y. Kevin Y cannot help but think about this, how we move about in fancy clothes and take seriously our rules and decorum while being quite literally full of shit.

Hand Towel, Face Towel, Butt Towel takes an earnest look at our collective disgust toward our indomitable bodily functions, our fears about mortality, and the charades that enable us to pretend that if we subscribe to the right etiquettes and buy the compartmentalizing linens, we are not still hilarious and gross.

These poems are conversational, confessional, and a little bit off the rails, like a two-a.m. conversation with an old pal, one who's seen you at your worst, smelliest, most shameful—and stuck around to laugh with you.