Stark naked in an incoherent sunrise. 26 degrees in the Hamilton 6am. Pollution index 35 on its way to 54. A poor air quality day. Seniors and those with respiratory ailments are advised to stay indoors. Humidex to hit 44. Heat alert has been issued.
Awake since 3:53, I smoke cigarettes and skim through a two day old newspaper. Coffee drips. Sports scores and obituaries and photos of tanned girls in orange swimsuits limp through my insomniac brain in a metronomic malaise. The factory fires burn, protrude a hopeful glow in the sky above the Beechwood Avenue rooftops.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Beechwood Avenue, August 20
the bed of memory remains unmade,
the sheets are stained
and reek of sweat
It's Tuesday on Beechwood Avenue.
It's August 20th. It's hot. The neighbor waters his brown grass by hand with a hose in true Italian fashion. Across the street, the mother is out, the father and his buddy watch the kids with growls and yells. The smallest catches a finger in the van door and catches hell from the father and gets an ice pack, eventually, once the sobbing subsides. Next door to them, a young single mother calls for one of her cats, coaxing it home by rattling a tin of cat treats. I sit on the front porch, smoking, looking at her large, firm breasts, which remind me of Jenifer's, love number four or five.
the sheets are stained
and reek of sweat
It's Tuesday on Beechwood Avenue.
It's August 20th. It's hot. The neighbor waters his brown grass by hand with a hose in true Italian fashion. Across the street, the mother is out, the father and his buddy watch the kids with growls and yells. The smallest catches a finger in the van door and catches hell from the father and gets an ice pack, eventually, once the sobbing subsides. Next door to them, a young single mother calls for one of her cats, coaxing it home by rattling a tin of cat treats. I sit on the front porch, smoking, looking at her large, firm breasts, which remind me of Jenifer's, love number four or five.
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