The sun hits my slimy lips at 5:40am and glistens.
The first thought that comes to me is, “have I slept yet?”
My tongue —stuck to my cheek and fuming something reminiscent of gasoline—
Crawls to the crevices of my mouth and pulls in select chunks of crusty skin potentially infused with cat hair.
My eyes sewn shut with salty evaporated tears and various biological particles spring open
To the site of my dream woman, nude and snoring.
The drool has soaked her pillow and her odor, which is special to my heart, is
Something between curry and maple syrup.
The cat in the other room is clawing at the door and howling like she was in heat.
The incessant mews fall into rhythm with the buzzing alarm clock, volume on high.
Then the baby chimes in with his strange morning vocal practices
—Comical, steady, and eerie at the same time like a mummy being raised from the dead
Or the monster of Frankenstein coming to life.
“Ughhhhhhhh, ughhhhhh, ughhhhhhh…”,
“Mew, mew, mew, mew, mew, mew, mew, mew…”,
“Nnnnnnnttttttt, nnnnnntttttt, nnnnnnnnnttttttttt, nnnnnnntttttt…”.
The glorious song of morning!
The noise propels the thought to my mind,
“Ok, I probably should get up.”
Everything cracks as I slowly roll over and pull myself up the head board.
Knees, toes, pelvis, elbows, shoulders, fingers, neck, and arms
Throw another layer on top of the orchestra of my home.
I’m up and step cautiously over sleeping beauty.
Wobbling towards the door, I duck through the hobbit-sized entrance to my room
And hobble through the nail-studded ceiling of the attic,
Grateful not to hit my head.
I pivot my tightened legs towards the staircase and descend as if it were the temple of Kukulkan
Littered with soup cans, peanut-butter jars, paintbrushes, papers, and tubes of paint.
I open the second door and hop over the cat
Into the first of two hairballs lying in a small puddle of clear bile
Waiting for me in the hallway.
The repulsive liquid soaks through my sock and I get a cold wet foot
And a strange sensation of disgust slithers up my spine.
After silently shouting insults and curses in my head,
I rip my sock off and leave it wherever it may be.
I turn towards the cat’s food to scoop a quarter of a cup for her dish.
Andrew Borne is 2 Cups Poet 1 teaspoon Musician 1/4 teaspoon Salt 1/2 cup Absurdity 3/4 cup Chef 1 egg, beaten 2 1/3 cups Family Man. Mixed together and served raw. His column 7x appears weekly in Oddball Magazine.