If Justin Timberlake Calls . . .

If Justin Timberlake calls I’ll scream in his ear and tell him to leave a voice message. This morning my voice is a sparrow caught in Styrofoam. Whenever I take shower I feel faint as a fruit bat in Mecca. But those are the brakes if you can‘t swim with the rest of the fish. Lately, nobody has been bringing me flowers. Or dead ones. Someone once asked me what I did for a living. I said exist but existence is not a predicate. It’s a gift. Even Aristotle knew that. In his later years, he became lonely and turned to the flute. He never admitted plagiarizing the tunes of T. Rex. Justin, on the other hand, is a different matter. He always gives me the right number to call. Especially when I have a Planter’s wart on my tongue. In the old days, they made you crunch microphones as a remedy. You lost your teeth but got rid of your tongue. If Justin calls, tell him I can’t speak. I’m feeling a little twelve-tone this morning. Middle C coming out like an F. And I just spilled orange juice on my navel.