Saturday, June 4, 2011

cruel suns

Drinking iced tea, chagrined at the thought of my favorite space to write and drink caffeine being up for lease, seeking refuge from the humidity, listening to people try to fall in love, not feeling like playing even slacker renditions of sports on days like this when the thought of lemonade on the front porch not yet covered with the shade of climbing vines, or a shady tree by lake rocks seems like an infinitely better option.

Ambition to create defeated by exhaustion, coming home from family gatherings to pass out on the couch, waking up to humid wind and sound of diesel engines, wanting to lay there indefinitely because I know I will not be able to lift this heaviness from my eyes as I wish it would rain.


Randal Graves said...

Land of the parking lot fisticuffs is having issues? Well hell, that sucks.

Was in the 50s when I left, don't even want to know what it's like now (though I suppose you revealed that, just don't waste time trying to kill it when it comes). Did finally nab a shot of an ever-more-rare cardinal, around here of all places.

One of the finest tracks in the history of rock &/or roll, transmutes 752 different darker shades into something wordless. Or wordy. Like this comment.

Word verification: knoties, noun, a state of distress for innards.

Emily L. Hauser said...

Wow I love that track. Wow, wow, wow.