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.