Summertime Madness (audio)

The chirping birds and I watch the world with our beady eyes. In the back of my mind there is a humming that just won’t quit. Anxiety. All the little birds all around and around in the trees which tower and sway and clump together like giant beasts, and the noise which is so relentlessly pleasant it nests in your ears and drives you mad.

You imagine me like a small butterfly in your palm. You watch my wings, my colors, my tiny antennae probing in all directions. At the center of the earth is your heart on fire with a kind of smoldering passion. The dark parts of what makes you up begin to pulse to life. I wish I could write something worth your time. I would like to bring forth a story, a world, conjure something up that fits perfectly into the cave of your most burning desire.

The trouble is when I picture you in my mind, I am always just a little off. I see not you but through you, as if you exist but only barely. Perhaps I am the only one who can see you. If that were true, would I know it? Or would you?

You tell me talking nonsense will only exhaust my thinking and amount to jitters and aches in the end, so instead of taking you too seriously I step barefoot into the garden and light the last cigarette from the pack I swear will be my last but promises are pie-crusted and broken, it always seems, when entrusted to my own hands.

The summer is hazy as it caresses my bare skin. It’s too hot to do much of anything except slink into the cool pool water and stare out across the brittle sweet grass. The clouded sky above me is as blue as a robin’s egg and exactly as fragile. Do you ever find yourself remembering my lips on yours? Sometimes I do. I fantasize about the way you take your time stroking me. Your hands and your scent and my weakness for your impossible strength.

I take a swallow of ice-cold gin, examine my thighs as they part silently underneath the crystal water. My skin is the tension of a cracked eggshell sky, and it all buzzes in my brain like a sunlit agitation.

. . . .

Perhaps not the best recording. I just wanted to open my mouth and feel words come out. It helps me somehow. I guess to feel real. Whatever that means.

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