This Is America

In this swimming I sit.  No longer dusted.  I am a wet whirl, whorled.  Like quicksand, but the air. And it’s hot. Motherfucking HOT.  I wear a thing that is like a sheet but pretty.  Breasts akimbo.  My hair edges slick-sheened with sweat.  The room has stopped pulsing, now it just compresses.  The dogs lay dead on the wooden floor.  They were breathing and now I don’t know.  I could check their tongues but I cannot move. This is where prayer takes over. 

When the air around you is inescapable…all sixties orange-blurred, fat paisley and spinning…all you want to do is not move.  I am a dead dog too.  

If we could just turn on the fans, fillet our skins to get to the underneath, fill our orifices with ice maybe.  Pay a man to keep us cool. A guy with true dedication in his heart.  Wearing overalls, shirtless.  Mid-thirties, pre-maturely gray.  Pockmarks. Kind eyes.  A feeling of obligation deep within him. That would be nice.  A kindness to one another.

Lift the hair from the nape of my neck and blow there.