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Toilet Thoughts (A Futile Flush)
Why–
the word that spins
around and around
the bowl of the porcelain throne
that is
my skull.
With each rotation, it gets
closer and closer
to the ominous portal
that will
transport it to the
fathomless,
chaotic ocean
in which
dialectal waste is
preserved by tear-derived
salt for
E T E R N I T Y...
With each rotation, those three indelible letters
F A D E from my
worn,
disheveled mind like
ketchup residue on
chinaware during a
rinse cycle.
My fatigued heart
cheers on the lexeme as if
it's an arterial blockage.
It places a bet
on the
alphabetical steed,
hoping to win compensation for
Seabiscuit's belated departure.
When a mummy's discarded
linen cloth
obstructs
the passageway to
prizewinning perishment,
each cell of my
downtrodden being asks,
Will this linguistic leech
forever gorge on
my brain, depriving it of
vitality?
This parasitic interrogative procreates, producing
alphabetical spawn that
multiply
faster than
primitive rabbits.
The lettered pathogens
threaten to overspread their
ivory Petri dish.
Words rise in the
toilet bowl of my mind,
rushing to the rim so as to
jump ship like
Leo and Rose.
Quickly, I
lunge for a plunger.
The portable,
plastic, ball-
pointed
pen with which I
catheterize my brain
allows limpid words to
D
R
I
P
into the vessel of poetry.
Finally, I feel relief.
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