it keeps going til the day it stops

On a gray, rainy day
in the dark kitchen
she winds up a fork of long red noodles
all of them twist and spin together in a bundle
she escorts them the short distance into her mouth
where her teeth mash them and tear apart their careful strings
into a soft, homogenous mush
that slides down her throat

later, when her stomach and various intestines
are done with their reductive labors
the nutrients and calories of spaghetti
will reform into the order of her flesh
then fire off into a burning jump
into a quickfire thought
a note of song from perfectly orderly vocal cords

Before, the spaghetti was orderly strings of wet pasta extruding, growing out like hair
before that, a mush of flour, water under machine hands
before that, smooth round wheat grains
before that, a mush of dirt, water

Now they are churning in her stomach
dissolving in a sea of mush
after that, her orderly muscled body
after that, the chaos of shit
after that, the earth

Her body too, orderly muscled, singing in time
changed somehow between the last seven years, and the seven before that
traded out and reformed
mysterious in its orderly skin cells and long strings of hair
in seven more years, slowly breaking down
vocal cords with frayed edges
after that, seven more years,
after that,
After that, a mush of dirt, water
After that,

When Machines Get Wet

Once there were 2 liquid streams
they crept towards one another
made deep in the dust,
crossed in the dirt.

Time in not mine

Time in days of gravel in toes,
like when will the next bag
of Chips Deluxe Cookies arrive?
(two weeks)
And how long will we make them last?
(a day or so)

The waiting for things beyond fingers
now less for edibles
and more of intangibles
like
when will it be easy?
(two more years some say)
And how long will we last hanging on?
(a question I see resting under someone else's fingers).

Those things all out of reach,
delicious when someday mine.