(no subject)
the entire left wall of my living room is glass, pushed back by a mammoth spanish oak. open the window: manic green floods the carpet, flypapers the walls, which are still bare, save the green, the stuff of summer in decline. tell me, please, if there's a way to revert back to rage; degrade this silence into a state of incoherency. i seek the purity of present-tense. and fail. the formality of my silence, of “healing”-smoothing my skirt as i sit; the sun, skin light with it. i sweat without producing a scent or any identifiable moisture. i wait every day for the sun to reach high noon: a drunk and stumbling yellow, at the height of its virility, bleaches out the leaves, chapped concrete, light itself.