meat packed tightly underneath. infrastructure. teeth rotting all the time. bacteria drinking spinal fluid.  botanicals bloom out of reach. menaced by health. worms.

In the laze of the morning air

I feel the weight of my bladder.

the shape of my room still emerging,

an image painted on warbling waters.

blanket and bed like heaven and earth

between them all the world right now.

Distance distills the good of time and places.

Tomorrow the reckless pace today- the talking, thinking far away- will make no sense to you.

Leaving only the pleasing private colors of singular impression.

Maybe sipping sweet tea on a floral couch, one ice cube with a captured gnat.
Straight tray sink refill. The trash collects them.


Maybe a lady, lethargic, middle age, amiable and sleepy.
What's up with moms and prescription filling her unshaken faith in medicine as pleasure.  

The window unit kicks on, the ice cubes shift as the sugar takes their edges off.

The heat has robbed the day.

It’s too hot outside for what feels like forever,
I resent it because even though I don’t know it is,
I feel it is, a signal that no matter if I tidy up, brush my teeth
and put beer stained t-shirts in the hamper

the sun will swell and gobble up my effort
absorbing freshly vacuumed floors into an inconcievable inferno.  

But God, it’s the sun.
What’s a pile of ***** dishes to solar fire, He whose wrath I feel a billion miles away.
God, infinite infinities of distance but I’m sweating in the time it takes to find my car in this Godforsaken parking lot. God there is nothing worse than parking lots. I’ve never been pleased to spend a moment more than I expected in a parking lot.

Every blacktop another ****** unbearable embassy of hell - a boring, baking sunscape.

Each and every one an anti-oasis of indifference and privation.

I drank the *****
together with the pretty,
colorful juices

decantered and set
aside for the occasion.
Forgive me, I was

already tipsy,
because meeting new people
scares me a little.

I got drunk quickly,
and laid down on the couches
I just knocked right out.

Shameful, but then it
felt here, as always, like it
happened somewhere else.

Life's Summer happens at once,

all at once. With the agony of potential,

and I become the sprawl;


stale,

dysphoric.



acting without acting
sleeping without sleeping.
an act of will to close my eyes
to shut my ears to murmuring
too hot air,

my space a lesser place within the waking world
a world with shorter seasons and reasons to be
and being without reason; just being


A summer without rain.

A summer without late night drives and angry drifting from lane to lane - where the hours long occasions between petty obligations interrupt

a terminal

imagination.