My toilet has been scaring me.
It has become morose and cantankerous.
It bellows in the early hours of the night.
It recites Byron and talks of self-mutilation.
It drinks, drinks, drinks,
and then sings
in its low raspy voice
of the great machinery of night.

It evokes images
of Frankenstein's creature,
Prometheus, and Milton.
It likens itself
to a wolf on the steppes,
a misplaced Rosicrucian of Malta,
the grand protector of divine truth.
So I shot it.

Four times in the bowl,
twice in the basin,
the shots rang wonderfully
through the charmed acoustics of the shower.

I disassembled the bidet.
The kitchen was howling in approbation.
I ripped out the plumbing and began
putting it back together again.
This time it will be stronger,
this time it won't feel anything,
this time it will be happy.

Some of the parts,
irreparably damaged,
required improvisation.
I decided against using
a poor rubber stopper,
which is undoubtedly the cause
of those late night rants
on the fading of natural beauty
and god's indifference to our individual egos;
replacing it with an industrial
denial flow regulator.

It might cost more in the short run,
lead to some unexpected gurgles
and unbridled egotism,
but in the long run
I am sure
it will yield a thick,
rich
subjective reliability,
instead of this ridiculous
yearning
for truth.