At the market in the summer heat
I get there and set up my tent and wait. People move behind me to grab their coffees, clad in their running shorts, the machinations of Sunday morning accelerating their leisurely rush. There are bicycles peddled by middle-aged men wearing bicycle shorts, women moving in form-fitting tights. I get peach fuzz on the insides of my arms, and the itching starts as soon as I begin to sweat. There is a fire station across from me that never seems to be very active. Peaches for you, peaches for me, peaches straight from the country tree. The acoustic entertainment is more accurately defined as murder by aural assault. Every once in a while I must endure the questioning of an idiot, which makes me wonder if we are truly a nation of idiocy.
At home in the evening in the kitchen
I listen to the humming of the air conditioning window unit and ponder its destructive nature. It's hot outside but it is a natural heat, the type of heat human kind evolved to endure. When we cook ourselves for breakfast will we finally have second thoughts? In a way, we're a man with a stolen credit card assaulting the Vegas strip, burning through hookers and casinos in a suicide dream.
In bed, in the middle of the night.
The true nightmare is considering one's insignificance while lying awake in the dark beneath sweaty sheets. Every time I squash a bug I feel as though I've murdered an entire planet. What a tumultuous cocktail of conflicting emotions a human being is. Is being cliche the most awful human crime or the best thing we can do? I share what you share and therefore I know that I am as you are.
In the morning
Hello, coffee. Drink me out of me.
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