Postoffice West

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This heat and working on another piece reminded me of a summer walk on exactly this road in Galveston. Anybody who knows what I’m talking about, knows what I am talking about. Usually people don’t walk this stretch, it runs through supposed gang and self stated ‘ghetto’ territory to get from down town to the abandoned train cars. It’s a rout us locals with camera and seeking poetic or song writing inspiration take….we explore the abandoned brewery along the way, we sit on the empty 1940’s train cars. But I’ve ridden my bike a few times before and one day I walked it (and was picked up by a Police Officer on the way back to give me a ride to safer places with plenty of warnings about the area, thinking that I was a tourist, camera in hand.) I wish I was there right now with my camera. In my mind are particular angles I have that I have yet to capture…but that is also Galveston…walk by the same place a million times and suddenly see it differently. This, however, is exactly what that walk on the July day in 2015 was like and now July 2016 that I remember. #Nostalgia #Writing #TexasSummer #TexasHeat #Galveston #Heat #Summer #SummerHeat #Itsfuckinghot #allmywritingtodayhasbeenabouttheheat

Postoffice West

It’s summer time.
It’s Summer time in Texas.
It’s Summer time on an island in Texas, and we are nowhere near a location we feel is the beach.
Slap on the side of your neck the mosquitos sharp sting.

Close your eyes.
Feel the heat rising off the pavement you are walking on. Hear the quiet sound…only the slap slap of your feet step on the ground.
Smell the smells carry from the field to your right. The little yellow flowers that grow with the round black button inside.
Smell the BBQ coming from your left, those houses over there. They need paint, you can tell they were once white. The porches sag. There are people and little kids everywhere, playing in the dusty yards, men standing over charcoal grills, woman sitting staying shaded on big porch swings. In a blink you see this heat is playing tricks on you. The houses and yard stand empty. But you still smell the bbq. Along with the field, the sweat, a smell of tired heat.

Close your eyes again and smell. Listen.
Hear the glass that crunches under your feet, the toe of your shoe sends a bottle skittering. Crickets or some bug or another like them from the fields of flowers, dozens…no hundreds.
Wave the bugs you can feel but can’t see from your face.
The sweat dripping from your scalp.

Open your eyes, see the heat shimmering. Over the empty back long ago once paved street, from the cracks weeds creep.
Shimmering heat waves rising from the train tracks you’ve come to. Old, and unused since probably before your even daddy’s time.
Notice the birds don’t come here, the crickets song has stopped.

It’s summer time.
It’s Summer time in Texas.
It’s Summer time on an island in Texas and we are nowhere near a location we feel is the beach.
Slap on the side of your neck the mosquitos sharp sting.

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