i spend my early-morning saturdays in the high school parking lot. i scour stalls for something small to fill the pickle jar; something big to fill the pot. there's contest breeds of hot cumaris grown - the second-hottest in the state. beneath the heat, they're sticky-sweet - straight capsaicin-laced candy - and'll linger on yr tongue for days.
sidewalks overrun with bicycles too afraid to ride the road. there's human beings i've never seen in all my years of living here, all in pristine workout clothes. they get the trail at park & armitage - just clear a path and let 'em through. they ding their bells - ah! go to hell! (let the job creators honk as they fly by, looking down at you).
we watched it thaw while they were off somewhere in the southern hemisphere in shorts and a tank top. and probably flip-flops!
sneezing, smiling in the summertime. this whole block is sprouting up. stick yr calf, bring yr best lamb, prepare yr offering. we'll paint the whole town red with virgin blood.
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