there is an ancient man owning hundreds of rusted kitchen appliances kneeling on sun-bent lands off of china street and he is haunted by the sounds of some dead woman. face like a meat patty and crusted sausage for fingers. i ask if i can take his picture but he doesn't have hearing so he keeps spitting and lipping and gumming the air as if it's something slippery trying to escape his mouth, and then i know he is talking but has no teeth. and after a long rant about how the city is trying to clean him up, he pauses and cups his ears towards me and says: you're a little chicken, miss smith, and i'm 86 years old.i am dutch inside my brand new greenblue chlorine freezer smelling world. my mr. sky and this very man is lemon with hot heat and dumble-down summer dust from last august and both smell very bad. driving away i saw a dead cat atop a stove-burner. 
it's hot today
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