It’s about 80 degrees outside
and it’s raining.
It’s really not raining, more sprinkling-there’s a Californian for you
always exaggerating the weather
It’s hot and sticky and the air is heavy
(at least I’m not in the south)
And a grey shield over the sky
is locking in all the damned humidity
It’s a perfect day for a poem
Now if I could only find the words
hmmmm.....where did I have them last?

My hair is retaliating against this climate
I was built for dry weather
It feels like death
kind of looks like it too
That heavy damp dank sweaty acidic air
A brown “lawn” and a hazy sky
...it was sunny earlier

I’m sitting here with only my thoughts
(yeah, and I’m ignoring the little ones and their bickering
...Christ, do they ever shut up?)
I’ve decided I don’t have poetry anymore
only these fragments that buzz in and out
between pretty and dull
Sometimes I fear I am drying up
but I know I’m safe for the next few months
because nothing can dry in this weather

It’s a season of sunny misery
(I’ve always been more of a fall kind of girl)
I think it’s in my nature to like the chill
I’d rather be bundled up in the cold
than comfortable in my skin
That’s why I never enjoy this time of year
Life always feels so crowded
and it’s the season of tan lines
...it’s so hard to be dark in the blaze of the sun

I’m considering a break from myself
Maybe pretend to be someone else
(someone better)
Different is always better
isn’t it?
I think I’m tired of this frustration
I thought I had this figured out
I know I’m tired of this fucking sweat
I feel dirty
(a horribly dirty girl)
And I pose no threat
just ask the kids

I think I’m just going to put the pen away for awhile
Until these thoughts change seasons

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