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Pony: that kind of summer
6.25.2003
Sorry to those friends with low thresholds for the purple. I could not think about what to write so I just wrote and it is all poem-y:
Blow on me. These are the days when skin is brown and smells like grass and the Great Lake 1.5 km down Bathurst street. This heat is so sensual. Ugh, don't touch me.
The fattest men in the city are sitting topless outside the laundromat and teenage boys with t-shirts around their heads and inflamed cases of backne hover in the park behind the liquor store.
After work, girls in messy chignons bump hips on the languid meander home through the park, stirring their iced coffee and nodding slowly, as though ethered.
Sitting in a sundress on the steps outside the apartment, a man my father's age slows his car down to check if I am wearing any underwear while his wife looks for a parking spot.
I think there is a free concert tonight or a movie playing down by the harbourfront some festival starts tomorrow yeah we should go to that and don't forget there are weddings and did we get invitied to a barbecue tomorrow night and what about renting a cottage is there still cold beer in the fridge?
I will eat dinner when the sun goes down. 9:30 like in Europe. I will touch you when the air is less still. My hair is driving me crazy. Oh there is the elastic. Better with the hair off my neck. Would you mind
