Siegfried and RoyAlan King
Humid today and the clouds drift like melted ice cubes in the tea-colored sky. Could I be a tea bag steeping in the tall heat that withers even the street signs like flowers? Listen to the weathermen long enough and they start to sound like marks taken in a street hustle with Nature. Who knows how the weather’ll behave when the seasons intrude on one another, the way the brain intrudes on the body when endorphins are unleashed to overthrow the kingdom of pain inside us, or inside the brothas wincing gotdamn! at Cola-colored women whose sweet scents mingle in the breath of something wild, what meteorologists can’t quite command. Listen to them long enough and they become exotic entertainers, snapping their whips before their miscues come back to bite them, awakening that inner kingdom.
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