The Heat of Breath. It Feels, and Stinks, Like That.

With each step I feel heat. Walking on air. Like doing push-ups on a ship sailing the sun.

No relief. No worries. I like it, as a whole.

People are nuts in the heat, though. Actually nuts.

The Pecan bows to tie her shoe and falls over. Her ass in the air looks like two halves. Bumpy and wrinkled like a sundae topping. Almost like a walnut, but tastes different.

Walnut grimacing. His shell layers thick. Sweaty and walking home from the office. The goal that bled though his eyes reads the same as almost everyone else…”We Gotta Get Back Into Air Conditioning!”

A special tool will break him.

A large, steel V. Encompassing his body. Breaking him. A horrible situation. Physics in motion. He hails a cab. “Fuck this!” screams in his eyes.

Everyone watch.

Macadamia skins everywhere. Red fingers tickling the air with their salty heart attacks. This macadamia looks fine…until he throws himself in front of a cab.

“No, you fucker!”

The cab driver skids to an inch before the crazy red-nut’s head. I was disappointed, along with the tourists surrounding me. “Awwwww…” dripped from our lips like melted glass.

In this heat there is nothing solid. Everything is soft and visible.

Flesh everywhere. State Street on a (heat index) one hundred degree day is a terrible thing to witness. XXL tourists gagging on their water bottles, stinkiy if you walk behind them. Not BO stinky, but fat stinky. Oil, popcorn, snack stinky. The worst. Tight-jean-shorts-still-creep-up stinky. Why are their crotches such a magnet for moving fabric? A natural defense againt chaffing thighs? (Pull up the cotton, boys! We got thighs turnin’ red!) In their eyes and out of their mouths scream the same thing – “Let’s go into this popcorn place. It’s air conditioned. And it smells like butter.”

The heat in Chicago makes the people go crazy. Instead of food, the beggars ask for water, soda. The Red Line conductor says, passing Wrigley Field, “It’s a hot one out there, but not for the Cubs,” instead of, “The Cubs are below .500 for the eighth year in a row.”

They find a fountain and lie down in the reservoir that can cool their body. What happens when their blood warms the shallow pool?

The lake. That huge lake.


There is no escape.

The college-Yeah Yeah Yeahs-girl discontinued the ripped pantyhose and instead went for the short skirt-with-naked-legs-look. Nineteen-year-olds don’t look good like that when they prefer doughnuts to whisk(e)y.

Less interesting.


Only the Earth’s heat can bring it out with complaints and large-thigh-creaks.

When winter comes, these people will smile again. Instead of drinking water, unfortunately, they will eat again.

A lot.

3 Responses to “The Heat of Breath. It Feels, and Stinks, Like That.”
  1. RJ says:

    interesting obsession with fat, here, skinny boy.

  2. I thought I was obseesed with the “nuts”.

  3. RJ says:

    well. . . no more than usual.

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