chamomile, rain, and cummings
I woke up to a fire alarm and it turned out to just be cicadas.
summer is here
a leaf falls in loneliness
it's been years since i read those cummings anthologies,
and i still can't make sense of my thoughts.
we hit the woodshop early and by two i was back in bed.
my roommate was in his.
He was just napping but i was sick. It came and it left like a fly-swatter.
I'd had maybe eight cups of coffee in the morning. more.
twelve or probably fifteen. couldn't stop drinking it,
i took a bath in coffee.
I whistled while i worked, only i can't whistle.
so when i laid down to nap i could do little
but stare at the bed springs of the top bunk.
outside our open window played the weather.
it was raining housepets and there was tarp-folding thunder.
It hurt to stand, to roll to breathe.
my stomach and head were in a shouting match.
i was katy-perry-hot-and-cold
i felt the need to empty.
To that effect i pulled a box up to the side of my bed.
packing bubbles and all.
it stayed empty
I went outside.
I was Lawrence Oats.
I purged myself into the wet leaves,
kneeling on some fallen branches.
I've only gotten seasick once.
I was 19 and had given blood the day before.
my captain thrust some saltines at me,
and we kept working.
I alternated between pulling fish out of the net
and leaning over the side.
This was all yesterday.
and three years ago.
I woke up this morning feeling Like a postage stamp.
Feeling like someone Murakami would have pointed out.
someone Miyazaki would have brought to life.
I woke up feeling like spending the day in my room drinking chamomile
and getting little done.