rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,

Suffering Succotash

So the shopping trip didn't happen after all, due to the crappy American car that failed its post-repair driving test. Tentatively I will go tomorrow, or perhaps tentatively Tuesday, the same day I will tentatively go to the chiropractor. Everything is on hold but the heat.

The heat is rude and vengeful and rough, and about to explode into an almost tropical fury. 103 tomorrow, 107 Tuesday and Wednesday, highs over 100 through next Saturday, and, wore still, nocturnal lows that would be sultry highs, peaking at 81 on Tuesday night, the lowest low of the week being 71 next Friday. These are predictions, of course, and subject to change, but the mere thought of them has me drenched in misery sweat.

I could be this miserable in Belize at a far lower cost. And the food would probably be better, though I doubt I'd have much appetite there, either. By rights I ought to be wasting away, but so far I'm not. Maybe I'm retaining water. If I burst, the neighbor downhill will suffer a flood. A sultry flood, no doubt.

Stay off my lap, cat. It's too hot for such familiarities.

Sunday Verse

The Romantic

by Jay Nebel

I've been to the movie about the flood where the boy and girl float
under the latticed bridges, miraculously still, their bodies only touching
from elbow to wrist, and somehow, they stay together
admist the wreckage of refrigerators and station wagons,
soggy stuffed animals, wooden houses, eyeless dolls
and picket fences that drift through a city, held together tenderly
as the ash of a cigarette. They survive, get married,
live happily for six months, never fight, make love
on the kitchen tile, until one morning a water logged greeting card
shows up on their doorstep, a heart felt fuck you
scratched on the inside. We find out he has cancer, only one day
to live, and we feel cheated as they spend the last hours feeding
the ducks on Laurelhurst Pond, because we have to return
to our ordinary lives, snapping your bare ass with a wet towel
on Halloween, or you splitting my lip months earlier
in a wrestling match. Or leaving me standing there
in a Home Depot parking lot wondering if you would ever
come back with our two Chihuahuas and the new barbecue loaded
into the backseat of the car, pissed because I paid too much attention
to the cashier, my marriage driving away with her hands
on the wheel, music blaring, the wind smashing her in the face.


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