Claque For The Dripping Faucet Minds The Slices Of Bread

i guess if you knew where this story was going you wouldn’t continue listening. you’d say something about this being a clay shay of claptrap
but since you don’t know where this is going
or what i would have you feel you continue in this twisted jargon game

do you remember learning about string theory and the gigantic brain that we are in that has been named half heartedly

when two slices of the bread hit together solar systems are created
like the first step into an idea with the clash of the second idea a theory is formed the same way a woman makes a lung while sipping tomato juice there is not much different in the way the woman’s mother made her mother’s grave dress out of the knitted table cloth that lightened the old oak table that was forgotten in the last move to the room where on Saturdays an old man dressed up as clown comes and sings ballads that remind the woman how hard it was to make it to the urine drenched chair that she sits hunched forward on the chair, which was once connected to the table, which is an idea that was talked about while eating toast and jam like a jam and toe fused in symbols means the same as growing old and the same as giving birth in small rooms that smell of bread and solar systems where the table and chair and the new ideas with the two slices of bread met jam and toes and her birth

the circle of ideology is a scary thing to see unfold for the first time. the second time it is life changing pleasantry

today, thankfully i woke early washed dishes picked up discarded papers that wore houses with eyes monsters who gave candy grey hair wrapped around pennies i scrubbed on my hands and knees with a coarse brush and later before bed had sex with my husband

he told me it had a been a good day, and i smiled back a repeated idea

today i was careful to focus on what i was doing slowly banished thoughts about long narrow passages that lead to more bulging tremor passages that lead back to wrinkled diminutive passages the red pepper sauce on the green plate. the crunched up collage of falling leaves with glitter dirt the tightness of long strands of hair on youth penny dates 1997, 1984, 1976 the grain of wood under soapy purifying reflection the tongue licking up spine into the mouth of the salt block dream

let me make it clear that there was
no where i wanted to go
no new idea i needed to meet
no twisted game i wanted to end.

the simple sound of water dripping out of the faucet was enough to
make every minute not turning it off a claque repeating positions.

by now you realize this is going nowhere new
nothing shocking nothing flippant and attention grabbing
no new way to feel insignificant want
you will have to learn to feel the simple inner empty space in your today by yourself

that is why i recommend you stop reading clay shay claptrap sorry for exhausted efforts and remember guessing twisted games that you don’t want to end and despite large

imaginations logics theories your solar voyages
are not much different than the solar systems’ endings which by now you must know
are the same as the bindings which lead back to the beginnings of why you continued listening to this twaddle that you felt would fill you with some-things.

Author: annieepoetry

I am poet. I am woman. I write with my thumbs. Read my poems. Tell me what You think. You may find the love poem you always thought someone wrote for you. Or the one you meant to write But Becareful lovers tell zingers and often break hearts Milky Way Earth U.S.A Madison WI

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