Sunlight. So much God damned unbroken sunlight. A man stumbled free from an intensive care unit. And no one lifted a pinky. To bring him back. And he tore the gauze. The weeping fleshy brown gauze. From his fist. Sized bedsores. And he rolled the water thickened cloth up as if to return. To an age when folding towels. Was a difficult and delicate thing. And from the sun soaked median he flung his. Brown and filmy and stained tongues. Across power lines. Like a maladjusted child. In the throes of an unsupervised. Garish and dilating Halloween.
The side walk is fading. Into the time bleached grout holding. Cut rate labor laid brick work together. Where a driver dozed. Off and plowed with an enthusiasm shared by a Retriever bursting bubbles. Through the fence work. And through the fetid film of day. Another bird bath capped with snout-less tusk-less elephants and filled. with faded cigarette butts. Invites me in for a momentary and refreshing dip. Amongst the black ants shining like reptile skin. Though the rays of burning vintage. Illuminate little else with more conviction than a yellowing cum stain.
Vibrations of headphones. In this much coffee stained toilet paper. Are muffed tighter. And take an ear careful enough to feel a needle prick. Like a hammer blow. Through an orbital bone. The claw foot clearing the cavity. These telephone poles and dead dogs and phone numbers on paper sullied. With equal parts running toner. And flame retardant. And blotchy with staples rusted and fingers bled and torn open. Suck satisfaction away. In the closed hand of the man who walked this sand paved sidewalk before. And vomited for the taste. Of genuine grief.
The stoplight sways dangling from a point. Where thick black wires meet. Like a circus tent. Lit to flame. When the freak show was cancelled. If it were to fall and shatter. Where the asphalt hot enough to blister. The inside of a pink cheek. Crossed and dared autos draped in sunbaked wallpaper. To kiss. It would crush a man. To hash on a skillet. The sunlight. So much God damned sunlight. Swallows and swallows. Harder. And the dust filmed faces. Of corner shops blink in the swelter. Like orphans of a guerrilla conflict borne. Over generations.
The urge rises like half. Chewed saltines. And paper mache licked from fingertips. A mental gaffe. In understanding. What it is that can kill you. But the stink of the sunlight that plasters. And glues. And nails the minutes. Into the sweating and open pores. In the pouches. Of tender skin. Beneath the lids of your eyes. Is already clinging to the roof. Of your mouth. And what moisture left. In the space between your skin and bones. Is already touching. The loose and reused band-aid. Of a Summer lingering. At the bottom of a Ball jar spittoon.
