Armed With a Plunger

armed with a plunger he stares down into the toilet bowl, as the waste he’s just expelled captivates him & a whole swirl of ideas comes flooding like a parade of pummeling tropical storms tearing at the shore--- that all this was inside him & now its not, that all the nutrients the body found no use for are being flooded down & out of their own accord, that it all says something about the supposed concept of “free will,” when no priests, ministers, rabbis, mullahs or imams are in any better of a position when watching the urine stream out of their member straight down into that Holy Bowl, which levels all religions, all political factions, all skirmishes caused by personal romantic involvements & afflictions, all idiosyncratic fragmentations of our psyches, all temper tantrum moments of extreme violence & all eons upon eons of sloth-like lethargy, with one crouching down or standing up, in the event of a bowel movement, pressing out the sludge for which the body itself decides no necessity remains--- so humbled by the drama of it all, so taken in by the mighty flush, he awaits, plunger in hand, for the failure accompany the human error involved when the toilet had been constructed, so that only a specific amount of excrement & toilet paper, can make its way down the pipe--- with this plunger, he will exorcise all the excreta, all the stool, all the drippings, droppings & sweaty fecal matter, that’s been deemed without conscious consent to be not worthy of this day, this 24 hour period, here in sweet sweet evolution.