oven
This heat is more warm wet wash-cloth like, draped over me, weakening my mind.
last weekend, when
lisa was here and normal temperatures were in effect, I was twice as productive. I swear this blog would be longer, twice as long at least, and full of so many creative things, if only it were 78 instead of 88, or however hot it is.
How hot is it? I don't have a thermometer, but I have the internet. My 2 sources for temperature info are weather.com and the new york times online. These sources never agree. Let's see... according to weather.com, it's a mere 82 but feels like 88 (ha!). The times says it's 80. clearly wrong.
If it's only 82, how did I ever survive when it was 95? It seems like I would choke on that much heat.
last weekend, when
lisa was here and normal temperatures were in effect, I was twice as productive. I swear this blog would be longer, twice as long at least, and full of so many creative things, if only it were 78 instead of 88, or however hot it is.
How hot is it? I don't have a thermometer, but I have the internet. My 2 sources for temperature info are weather.com and the new york times online. These sources never agree. Let's see... according to weather.com, it's a mere 82 but feels like 88 (ha!). The times says it's 80. clearly wrong.
If it's only 82, how did I ever survive when it was 95? It seems like I would choke on that much heat.
previously there was soma
afterwards you have "sense of insecurity"
it's a month past august now, almost 2, but any reason to share this poem makes me happy-- this is almost the best sonnet ever. almost. as long as you're not reading wyatt or petrarch.
and tonight in missouri, the heat is creeping up...
so, jdp-- this is august for you
(sorry the line breaks are bit hinky; this is the only way the poem would fit.)
Heat by Denis Johnson
Here in the electric dusk your naked lover/tips the glass high and the ice cubes fall against her teeth./It's beautiful Susan, her hair sticky with gin,/Our Lady of Wet Glass-Rings on the Album Cover,/streaming with hatred in the heat/as the record falls and the snake-band chords begin/ to break like terrible news from the Rolling stones/ and such a last light--full of spheres and zones./ August, you're just an erotic hallucination,/ just so much feverishly produced kazoo music,/are you serious?--this large oven impersonating night,/ this exhaustion mutilated tp resemble passion,/ the bogus moon of tenderness and magic/ you hold out to each prisoner like a cup of light?/ [submitted on 30 Sep 02]