Oh big bird in the moon, deliver me to June. Sunshine and pretty please, mango and swiss cheese, supped on til belly swells and then naptime cools my coffee mug half drunk in lazy Sunday sultriness.
Half empty, hauling my windless trireme and messed up on Mr. Clean, fumes inhaled after losing a bet; wiped with fastfood napkins and the map of a treasure chest. Whimper by the dock as sailors leave for legacy, I’m locked inside eternity, and hypocrites threaten me with piety; so what if I treated myself to licorice bits after a three-hour workout? I tune it all out, more upset at my burnout I guess, than what the vindictives figure out; still in disbelief at how I turned out.
Why no anniversaries? Or confetti under palm leaves. Frazzled by freakonauts fresh from maternity leave, a spitting image of June Cleaver’s son Beaver- or so I’m flattered by the cleaning lady who’d marry me in microseconds to her daughter Gabrielle. But no, not Gabrielle, no chance in hell - I’d rather be stowed in a whale belly, or forced to join the Navy.
Sentimentality's tempting, but there’s something more sustenant I’d be pre-empting. First-person bloodlettings and group therapy hugfests for neurotics and the depressed? I won’t wear such easy clothes - every swimmer borrows those. I won't put on my blood-red dress. No dirges or hellfire if I'm at my best. So it’s decided – we play at chess! I won’t barf on you, I promise. And I will clean up my mess.
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