Summer air is thick with wanting. These lungs wheeze sticky inhaling / exhaling through this stale soppy sour sponge.
And then the rain
the rain offers the briefest tease of a reprieve… but only a tease.
Category Archives: Working Class Literature
The storied water in dead eyes, 19
The dogs tell adventure stories as they sleep. I wake from a dream of an endless farm growing ranch style houses, the old farmer and his wife across the road tend tomatoes and peppers, leave the houses , sprouting weeds among over manicured lawns. In the short distance, corn. Farther and farther, back roads that leads like old tributaries to the river. Currents do not sleep or dream but the stories stretch out on abandoned riverbanks, an assault of cement and coal dust. Power plants sprout like pokeweed along ignored railroad tracks, casinos taking root in the shadows.
There are no dreams in slot machines. Take note of the faith of sleeping dogs.
The storied water in dead eyes, 17-18
17.
We are back to building bulwarks against the heat. My morning prayers consist of asking again for my father’s leathery skin. My dreams are lonely affairs in which I wander looking for the broken path to the waking world, the one with you, the dogs, the damned cat, this air thick with water it will not let go.
18.
The heart is bilge filling with opaque water. This is a crank grease baptism under one more apocalyptic sun. Read the skies for falling stars. We paint the pumps and hope. This hot house haze air will not break itself. Prime the pump. This goghead doesn’t move itself.