36.5°C (97.7ºF) today, the hottest day for 2011 so far, says the news. Haven’t been to the doctor yet (I hate hospitals) but current speculations to my headaches: the weather (inside my house, it’s an additional three degrees of heat), my glasses needing new prescription, not enough sleep and rest, too much stress, and pituitary adenoma. I will not get worked up on this. Let this be the tiny space where these worries go to die and fade into the ether. I bought Tylenol; that should be enough to last me through the week. Dear universe, I’m ready for the fucking rain.
Here’s a poem from S. who wonders about our lives and the summer of our discontent:
That Mississippi chicken shack.
That initial-scarred tabletop,
that tiny little dance floor to the left of the band.
That kiosk at the mall selling caramels and kitsch.
That tollbooth with its white-plastic-gloved worker
handing you your change.
That phone booth with the receiver ripped out.
That dressing room in the fetish boutique,
those curtains and mirrors.
That funhouse, that horror, that soundtrack of screams.
That putti-filled heaven raining gilt from the ceiling.
That haven for truckers, that bottomless cup.
That biome. That wilderness preserve.
That landing strip with no runway lights
where you are aiming your plane,
imagining a voice in the tower,
imagining a tower.