July. The ragweed’s ultramealy sex is in the air
and, with the window wide for breeze, is in whatever
damp reception-pits my cranium throws
open to such drift. The tradeoffs halfass cool
for fullblown clog, and nothing’s going to please me.
8 p.m. I close the window when the viciousness of 12-year-olds
across the street accrues too much: “You fartface,
Julie! You asshole ass!”—from one. And from another:
“Drooly Julie eats booooogers! Go rot with boogers!”
She does go—crying, I can see, and from what I can see
her major crime is she’s twice the size of the others, tush
a gravity-sagging target just begging for insult, and
a set of Asian/Negro features mixed past the borders of peer
acceptability. A truly shitty day. Although