THIS IS A POEM ABOUT THE KIND OF HEAT THAT MELTS RUBBER ON TENNIS SHOES AND MAILMEN WHO CURSE THE NAME OF GOD 9.1.17

9.1.17

Fuck, it’s hot.

So hot that grass revives and dies in the same day.

My dog has thick black fur

and he appears always in a state of confusion,

delirium brought on by the unchecked sun.

The pavement cooks the soles

of our feet

and melts the rubber bezel

on tennis shoes;

mailmen curse the name of god;

the horseflies are enormous and lethargic,

allowing human beings to touch them;

they don’t care; no one cares

in this wasteland of scorching air,

heat-induced apathy,

apathy like black magic

rending our hearts into twisted things

that forget how to feel and remember

only to survive, protect, and continue.


Written at 1:21 in the afternoon, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA. 

2 thoughts on “THIS IS A POEM ABOUT THE KIND OF HEAT THAT MELTS RUBBER ON TENNIS SHOES AND MAILMEN WHO CURSE THE NAME OF GOD 9.1.17

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