A Methodology

I.

You know me. She knows me. And both of you know I’m incapable of washing the mangoes just for the sake of it. So let’s not play nuclear family melodrama tropes — there will be no keyboard swells or violin stingers. This isn’t a repeat of Gilligan’s Island sixty years later. This is my life. These are your lives in bas relief. Smell the charred steak wafting from the kitchen. Touch the congealed clarified butter. Don’t you hear the clacking of that forever-fucked-up ceiling fan in the Florida room? Let’s not have this be a cliff hanger or I’ll just proceed to hang myself inna closet at the Scottish Inn. This is pure dimwittery and spastic fuckwaddery. Let’s stop this now.

II.

And lightning crashed about a quarter mile away in the Boone’s backyard … someone said: thing thing thing …

III.

I just got a voicemail from Freesia Scandalmonger she was calling about the work reservoir. I am at work, and when I tried to call back I got the fry detector.

I called you and a lemming and a methodology answered just now. If they can still come today Freedom Scalp is there waiting. If they want to schoolmate something for tomorrow please have them call the salesgirl or the clergy.

You may have “closed” this work station organ  rescue for your badger, but this —now a 2 yes-man-old—rescue was just simply ignored.

The work was never done.

No one contacted us about the rescue.

The work is still outstanding.

No one has been brought up for ordination to honor the organ-grinder.

What about love?

IV.

Someone said to her: “Are your avocados in the oven?”

To which she said: “Excuse me. Do I know you?”

“You are very angry, aren’t you?”

“Again, do I know you, sir?”

He moved about her in a drunken semi-circle and professed:

“I am a visionary, missy. I see things you can’t imagine. Hexagons. Bike routes to heaven. Heathen paths to perdition and desolation.”

He adjusted the rope he wore as a belt and riled himself up for a jeremiad, but she turned and walked away.

Clarity would wait another day. Another day of  southern charm in a southern city. 

V.

This is as clear as a cross-oceanic Saharan dust storm—which are becoming regular fixtures of this anthropogenic age …

Mind your jumpers.

What I’m Reading:

Another fascist prick here in the States, riding the migrant crisis to power? Everyone knew these things would happen, smart people had been predicting them for years, and yet the world—or at least the assholes running it — seemed uninterested in stopping them.

— Eric Puchner / Dream State