by dishpantheism

my bedroom smells like wet dust. i’ve watered the succulents in their clay pots and the tiny cloud forest. it’s a strange smell. the window is open. triple digits today. outside all of the vines look sulky. only the datura seems unfazed.

went to bed with my head throbbing. woke with it throbbing. i don’t want to predict how this evening will end.

the other day someone set a body on fire a few miles from my house. so strange. already four people have been arrested. passed the spot where it happened. blackened duff and granite. by the end of winter it will probably be indistinguishable from the surrounding landscape. unsuspecting people will go hiking across it. someone told me once when i was walking that i’d passed over the site of a homestead. he said that i’d passed where the door had been. it made every hair on my body stand on end. not sure why. ghost lintels and jambs. ghost hallways.

there’s a little cache of apples on the bed. green and yellow. translucent skins. very very sweet. lola helped me steal them tonight. limbs hanging heavy over alley fences. piles of spoiling apples below in the ditches.

wellidy. it’s that time. and so.

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