Sunday, May 15, 2016

Sunday wishing it were Frida again

Changed the bedding to flannel at around 9 last night, just in time for a stiff breeze from somewhere northwards and a drop in temperature.  Were it not for a crash on the expressway and the sun, I could've slept all damn day.  There won't be enough anyway for what's coming tomorrow.  It's going to be an ugly week.  Plain and simple.  Nothing to bow to and accept.  No reason to expect otherwise.  It's going to be stupid and pointless and generally bad.  

And yet... why not?  

Why the fuck not?  


You never need to piss so badly until you are right outside the bathroom door.  This is the corridor headed to the door and my back teeth are floating already.  But this is the corridor that leads to the door.  

Oh Frida, when I see you in the photos, so pretty and petite next to Jabba Diego the Hutt Muralist I get jealous.  I know it was complicated but you loved him so much and he you.  Give me your complicated love instead.  



Lie with me under the flannel sheets in the bed next to the window with the surf crash of passing cars on the expressway and the cool breeze, and sometimes when the wind changes you can smell the salt air from Brighton Beach.  Can you smell it?  Yes, there you go.  

Sunday morning and wishing it were Frida again.  

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