I’m fault-finding, and fact-checking August and September. The “End of summer” is a grandstand brag! The sweat at the base of my neck, and the damp curls residing there say there is no ‘end.’ I admit to liking one initial burn on my flesh like any other vacation fool might, but enough is enough already.
I’m spitting. I’m ingesting triple digits every stinking day. I’ve lost my cool, (I’ve missed my appointment with the air-conditioning man), I’ve lost my mind, and any sordid count of these sweltering days.
1-2-3, cuss, 1-2-3, cuss. That’s what heat will do to you. Flatten and fry you. Start a fire in you, — or in the old bowling alley, or in the canyon hills. I’ve seen it go down. I’ve seen it go up (in flames). It’s enough to make me want to scratch my fingernails though the taped box top of August tanks and crops. Come on, September, let’s be chill. Can’t we curl up under the covers?
it’s my apple heart
shriveling in on itself
— august burnt tattoo
(with apologies) for dVerse