Hot Headed

In heat such as this, everything is mirage-able. In heat such as this, the eyes are the least trustworthy gates into any of the senses. In heat such as this, the only provocative force is that which slithers up my nose and leaves hints of its presence in my mouth, send shivers down my spine, leaves my incompetent eyes blinking rapidly in a messy state of jealousy and astonishment. So on this 80-something degree day, i have come to appreciate smell - the one sense that i cannot seem to control, without turning blue and keeling over mind you. But in heat such is this, ohh baby, you better bet that smell has transcended it's invisible bounds and moved onto a much greater force.


Weaving through bikers and students and babies being dragged by their mothers' lowered arms, and mothers being dragged by their childrens' overeager curiosity, my feet sink deeper into the pavement with each successive step. The sprinklers are on and the grass is freshly mowed, sending brigades of grass blades down newly forged rivers. Well kempt lawns turn soft and marshy, the slowly sinking water trickles into soil and fills my body with pictures of worms in a wading pool, backstroking their way to the next mudbar. Oh futile eyes, you daring overzealous tricksters. Miscalculating the amount of dew it would take to send me backstroking or breathstroking or free-styling if that's more fitting with the grass as my floatation device and the ants as my lifeguards. My nose appreciates, my retinas overstimulate, my mind percolates in heat such as this.