Sunday, June 16, 2013

Frontal Lobe Failure – Saturday Syndrome

Dust bunnies form gangs and lurk in corners.
They multiply at my feet.
They have no shame.
Clutter closes in.
The implements of war against filth
are ready,  waiting for their Captain to call them to action.
They lean casually against the wall.
Mr. Clean whispers to the Kenmore,
soliciting a blow job.
The bucket bums a smoke.
I, Captain of the Domicile,
write fuck my life in the dust on my desk.
I edit the Drag Queen’s memoir.
I re-write then re-write the re-write.
I move towards the implements of war.
Passing the bathroom I wonder if
I’ve brushed my teeth today.
The Captain is AWOL.
The house is in chaos.
A flea hops a ride on my ankle.
I wonder about duct tape.
Afternoon creeps up on little cat feet
and leaves a trail of litter through the house.
I must dye my hair.
I will dust after I dye.
The flea sucks the Captain dry.
Mr. Clean has shot his wad-
Creepy, bald dude.
The Captain must dye.
The tiny, bloated flea rides
a dust bunny as if a rodeo clown.
The Captain, on the way to the front
has an idea.
I will glue flowers, and frogs
to flip-flops.
Dust mingles with E600 glue.
The Captain is incompetent.
There are old avocados in the kitchen.
I make guacamole. There are no jalapenos.
I am out of duct tape and
it is the first day of hurricane season.
When does ACE close?
The afternoon wears on
like a bad lover who won’t stop
touching the wrong place.
Perhaps there is time for a nap,
but the sheets are in the wash
and the bug spray hasn’t dried on the mattress.

Mr. Clean is bored.
The Captain should dust before
the bunnies morph to foxes.
Little Foxes was a movie.
I should Netflix it.
But the chaos is around me.
Morale is low.
The chifferobe threw- up clothes
that don’t fit.
It purged chunks of cloth into a puddle
on the floor.
While the Captain dyes
clutter wreaks havoc and
I check email.
Oprah has not replied … the bitch.
It is too soon to receive another
rejection from Sy Safranski at The Sun.
Sy Safranski at The Sun.
Sy Safranski at The Sun.
Flowers and frogs on flip-flops.
The Captain has gone mad.
I haven’t called [anyone’s name here] in a while.
I pick a number from my book.
I’ll talk for just a while. I’ll have wine.

The Captain has officially lost the war.

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In the Look-Back

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