I’m bulbling, bumbling like a dumb blond(e) from the Golden Age of Hollywood
without the figure
or the yellow locks,
a himbo who isn’t very beau.
How can a petite podwery, poerdy, poderwy–
POWDERY damn it
wite, white pill-or is it the pinkish-bluish capsule with the cryptic digits-
besiege a brain and morph it
into mash, or is it mush, to match
the collywobbles in the gut during
eight days of frustrating pharma fog thicker
than a full-frat, full-fat Frappuccino?
Science squashes my IQ as I misplace my cell phone, followed by the TV remote, keys and
bank card and my, um…I forget.
As if hijacked by the shakiness of a heat haze, I stumble to the ice machine but
come back with nothing.
Dates and deadlines become meaningingless in a malfunctioning memory bank, and
I fix and refix phrases like “extra much” that sounded Shakespearean when I typed them.
Mercurial emotions mock me like the menacing Space Invaders of my childhood as
innocuously constructive criticism punctures the pacifist in me.
Someone’s profiting from my prescriptions while I’m vantiqued, vanquished by
the salvos of adverse effects.
About the Author
A Canadian copywriter and copy editor now based in Gilbert, Arizona, USA, Adrian Slonaker is fond of opals, owls, thunderstorms, folk revival records, fire noodles, The Alfred Hitchcock Hour and non-alcoholic blue drinks. Adrian’s work has been published in WINK: Writers in the Know, Ariel Chart, Introspective Collective, Pangolin Review and others.