Dispatch from the Clorox War

       I believe there are two worlds. In one of them I clean it all,        all the time. In that world my laborious routines serve to cleanse the day and its objects. I’m talking—in part—about dust, the layer that overflows everything. But now it’s more than dust. I kneel before things, whether flesh, wood, metal, or plastic, I wipe it all, wring, lather, rinse it all.        I discover porosities in the smoothest surfaces and I extract. In this I feel the tensing of the muscles of my body when I descend to a surface and scrape. My limbs fill up with an imaginary black liquid bearing the name of a certain pleasure unknown to me.        I am in control. That sensation between fingers and thighs is my great unexpected possession each time that I, with my millenarian sponge, like a raging giant, scrape deep in the cracks of it all and I buff and split and whip until I find its pure edge, I rummage through things one by one and bring out the death inside them.