Dear Mary,

The heat here is abysmal.
I mean Georgia was sticky hot.
And Baltimore was humid like hell.
But neither can compare to this inferno
of Dante’s inspiration.

I can’t seem to recognize summer in Rome.
There are no bon fires in bare-foot backyards.
No scents of BBQ and charcoal grills.
I have yet to see a single fire-fly.
Red solo cup.
Potato salad.
Jello shot.
Or fire-works sale.

I miss air conditioning,
And afternoon thunderstorms –
The way the dark clouds roll in and thirsting leaves turn belly side up.
I miss neighbor-kids gathering on front porches
with artificially stained lips,
sucking on endless freeze pops.
Their carefree, crooked smiles.

I miss dirt-cheap Natty Boh’s.
Highland-town lemonades.                                                                                                 American food because you can pretty much eat anything.
And you can always add cheddar cheese.
And you can always add bacon.
And I don’t even eat bacon.
But still.
I guess I like the option.

 

I miss shamelessly indulging
in very crass things.
Consumer holidays I still rant about.
It seems you can even miss the things you hate –
You could maybe miss anything when it’s been long enough.
I miss Romeo’s ranch dressing.
Indiana, Pa.
Those old coal-mining geezers.
Red-hearted republican men.
We used to fight while I was working,
Serving up Mich-Ultra’s on ice,
Politics and religion.
Bob’s dinner recipes.
“Jules, I have a picture on my refrigerator,”
Mr. Zak told me for the millionth time.
It’s a photo of a young boy
feeding a carrot from his lunch pail to a donkey.
It Says:
“Don’t teach your children to be successful,
Teach them to be happy.”

This was his closing argument.
Almost every time.
Even when we were talking about:
Racism.
Sexism.
Poverty.
And then I would clock out of my shift.

“Get Jules a Redbreast.”
And I would drink a Redbreast.
And it’s still is my favorite whiskey.

But no one calls me Jules anymore.
And I stopped trying to fight
with other peoples
political ideas.
And I haven’t played beer pong in awhile.
And I’ve never seen an Italian shotgun a beer.

But damn it’s hot enough to fry an egg outside,
And I am cracking in this heat.
Just dreaming for a breeze,
And of the places I used to see.

Give the family a kiss.
I miss you girls like hell.
Stay cool and be good.
And never visit Rome in the summertime.

Processed with VSCO with b5 preset

 

Kick the laundry pile.

Put the coffee on the stove.

Clean the loose tobacco off the desk.

Apply lotion.

The fan is not working?

Water plants.

 

~ sphssssh ~

 

The sound of hot coffee spilling on the stove top.

Brown stains.

Perfume steam.

 

Pour the coffee.

Roll a cigarette.

Hit play.

Wilco.

Google: How to fix a fan.

 

Facebook.

Facebook.

Facebook.

 

Stare at plants.

Blow a smoke ring.

Google: How to check computer storage.

Troubleshoot.

 

84.1 GB storage.

What the fuck am I storing?

Google: How to clean storage space on computer.

Troubleshoot.

 

Caches.

I’ve head about these before.

Only delete the old ones!

 

Empty folders.

What does that mean?

 

My computer learns about me.

Tracks my location.

My passwords.

Website information.

My computer remembers things for me.

Things I don’t have effort to care about.

 

My computer tracks my searches.

Customizes advertisements.

Creates a digital history of my preferences.

 

My curiosities.

My secrets.

My medical history.

Web MD.

A long list of things I could have almost had.

Or maybe do have.

 

Meyers-briggs.

Free trials on language websites.

Searches for people.

People I want to know about.

People I never want to meet again.

People who make me sad when I remember them.

People who might be sad if they remembered me.

 

Moved items to trash.

Exchanging memories for space.

 

Empty trash.

* Files can’t be deleted!

They are “running.”

Running?

Motherfuckers.

Avoiding me.

I don’t even know what they are.

But I’m lazy

So they won,

for today.

 

Until there comes a time,

when I’m forced to make some changes,

you can stay in the background,

collecting information,

about me.

 

My wrist is itching.

Just like the mint plant;

I am wilting in the heat

 

I am thinking

about all the things that I could do

to be productive.

 

I am thinking

how differently

time moves

when you finally keep some

and use it on yourself.

 

I am thinking

how differently

time moves

when the summer sun is so hot,

it lingers on into the night,

and gets trapped

in your bedsheets.